18+ (minors dni w/ this blog u will get blocked). tagging system under the cut. please don’t just like, leave a reblog to show the original author some love! multifandom recs.
SEVENTEEN -
all svt recs & ult favs
by genre . . . fluff / angst / smut / comfort
by member . . . seungcheol / jeonghan / joshua / jun / hoshi / wonwoo / woozi / minghao / mingyu / dokyeom / seungkwan / vernon / dino
BTS -
all bts recs & ult favs
by genre . . . fluff / angst / smut / comfort
by member . . . jin / yoongi / hoseok / namjoon / jimin / taehyung / jungkook
will add groups as i read! if i don’t usually read that group i’ll probably add a misc section to just collect things together.
A collection of fics my wonderful friends have written for me for my birthday! I'll be attaching my reblogs as I post them. Please show these fics all the love in the world, they were written by my favourite people ever and the best writers I have ever known 🫶
f - fluff | a - angst | r - suggestive/smut | h- humour
wish you would by @wqnwoos | 7.5k | f, a
You and Kim Mingyu have always walked that thin line between professional respect and something dangerously close to flirtation, but neither of you have ever quite slipped. So covering his newest case should be routine — but suddenly, keeping things professional isn't as easy as it used to be.
⭐️ read my reblog here!
THREE AM by @sailorsoons | 2.5k | f, r
Unable to sleep after a dream, your boyfriend Mingyu helps you go back to bed.
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
love, as a verb by @kkaetnipjeon | 1.8k | f, a, r
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
the worst barista in san diego by @seungkw1 | 4.5k | h, r
The new barista at your favorite local coffee shop is tall, handsome, funny, and definitely into you. Mingyu always gives you his employee discount, and he's even taken it upon himself to invent custom drinks, made special just for you. He really is the nicest guy around, and you genuinely might have a shot with him — which is why you don't have the heart to tell him that his made-up beverages taste utterly terrible.
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
eyes on you by @miniseokminnies | 1.8k | f, r
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
drive by @starlightkyeom | 2.9k | f, r
where a stranger hops in your car and tells you to drive
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
anchored by @joshujin | 4.8k | f, r
The extremely wealthy man you're newly dating thinks you deserve nothing but the best for your birthday. You struggle to accept that.
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
sweetness by @haologram | 42.1k | f, a, r
you're alone in the woods following the tail-end of a very bad live-action rendition of the walking dead and you're in jeans of all things: but welcome to kim mingyu's early post-apocalyptic guide to falling in love. in three days, no less!
⭐️ reblog coming soon!
ribs by @haologram | 11.8k | f, a, r
kim mingyu is a dear friend. a dear friend that spends nights in your arms, said nights set aflame with the tick tick tick of your gas stove when he makes you dinner, and searing kisses when he lays you down in your bed. yes, kim mingyu is a dear friend...and you wish he were more.
(where the ex-boyfriend who broke your heart shows up as your new coworker after 4 years)
pairing: lawyer!chan x lawyer!fem!reader
genre: lovers to exes to coworkers to ?? | angst, fluff, smut
rating: explicit, minors DNI
wc: 20.1k
warnings: aged up chan (he and reader are about 29), this story vaguely uses the american legal system, some flash backs/time jumps (for the lovers to exes part), they were both kinda idiots, poor communication, ambiguous relationships (reader), eating, drinking, soooo much kissing, teasing, fingering, oral sex (f. rec), nipple play, implied/kinda fade-to-black sex, that's it i think
a/n: endless thanks to @haologram for her patience with me because i really don't know why this took me so long. this is part of her amazing don't hate, litigate collab. i love you so much alta! we'll call this a happy birthday month present. thank you to my bby @joshujin for creating this amazing banner (and 6 other options because she's insane).
Your assistant knocks on the frame of your office door and pokes her head in. She’s got a concerning smile on her face that instantly makes you nervous about whatever she’s about to say. You and her had connected the second you hired her and you can read her facial expressions well. Right now, it’s giving news that’s going to make you mad. She, on the other hand, doesn’t look apologetic about the news at all.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to hate whatever you’re about to say to me?” you ask, leaning back in your chair.
“Because you’re good at reading me,” she offers without any apology.
“I swear to god if you tell me that client rescheduled again, I will fling myself from the roof,” you say with a sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
Taylor lingers in your doorway without losing her smile. Which is a good indicator that whatever she’s about to say isn’t that. “No, but it might be worse. So, the stairs to the roof are down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Funny,” you bite. She comes into your office and closes the door behind her.
“We’ve got a new hire starting on Monday,” she carries on without you asking.
“And that concerns me, why?” you ask, returning to your computer and falsely figuring she got this one wrong. The closed door seems like overkill for a new hire, but what do you know?
“Because he’s going to be in our division. Everyone is whispering about him. About how good he is at closing cases and how attractive he is,” she offers, still keeping at least something to herself.
You fix her with an unimpressed stare. “Don’t tell me you’re already drooling over another attorney that you haven’t even met yet.”
“No, I know we have a no-dating…” she starts and you roll your eyes.
“I could not possibly care any less about that. Date whoever you want,” you say without looking up at her. “But, dating an attorney is exhausting. 0/10, would not recommend.”
“You know, I’m so interested to learn more about why you feel that way,” she says. This, finally, makes you wonder where she’s going and makes you meet her eyes again.
“It’s been a long week, Taylor, I’m going to need you to start connecting some dots,” you relent.
“Oh, you know, I was just thinking you always talk about how you’d never date another attorney and I just think it’s so…interesting that we have someone else from your law school starting at the firm on Monday,” she says.
That’s enough to make your eyes go wide and your blood run cold. “What’s the name of the new hire? The partners never mentioned it.”
“Lee Chan,” she says with a knowingly sympathetic look. For a second, you think you forget how to breathe. And then you’re a million miles away.
What the actual fuck is Lee Chan doing accepting a position with your firm after all these years? What kind of game is he playing? It seems cruel to be doing this now. Or maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with you. After all, isn’t it a bit conceited to think that Chan coming to one of the best firms in the country has anything to do with you? What you do realize is that you have a lot of unresolved emotions to get over. There are probably just as many unanswered questions.
Of course, this would all be a lot easier if the person joining your firm wasn’t the same one you still thought about. Your hypothetical one who got away.
This definitely makes work a lot more complicated.
Offers are starting to come in for all the 3Ls and everyone is nervous. Everyone wants to know that they’re going to have something lined up for after graduation. Everyone wants to get their top choice. It’s competitive, but so is everything else about law school so it doesn’t really feel surprising. You and Chan manage to navigate it as well as two people in a relationship during a stressful time can. Neither one of you really talks about how you both applied to some of the same places. Or how the two of you are competing for your top option. What you do talk about, though, is how you plan to navigate the potential distance.
“What happens if we get jobs that put us on opposite sides of the country?”
The question makes you look up sharply at your boyfriend. You’re lying on the couch with your feet in his lap, reading a book for fun. A welcome change for the law books you’re normally reading. His book sits discarded on the arm of the couch and he’s watching you intently. You mark your own page and sit up so that you can have an actual conversation.
“I thought we were mostly applying in the same areas,” you begin, dipping that toe into the water.
He frowns for a second. Like somehow this is a test and you don’t have the right answer. “Well, we did. But, we both need to take the best options before us, right?”
“I’m not asking you to put me above your career, Chan,” you say with exasperation.
“What does that say about our relationship if you’re not asking that?”
“That we both understand what’s at stake in the next few years of our lives. That we both know how important our placements are in the first year after finishing law school.”
“Or that it’s not built to last,” he says under his breath.
There’s no malice in the statement and you can hear it for what it is. Apprehension. Nerves. He’s worried about your future, both together and individually, as professionals. You’ve watched the way other relationships between law students have played out during your first two years at school. It’s easy to bond over shared experience. But, the reality remains. Everyone in law school is competitive or you wouldn’t be there. Everyone is at least a little bit Type A. In a field that is, theoretically, built on compromise, sometimes compromising in personal relationships is the hardest part.
It’s not time to get quite that serious, though. Not in your eyes. You slide over on the couch so that you can cross your legs and have them press against Chan’s thigh. With one of his hands in yours, you give him a look full of feeling.
“I love you, Chan,” you say and watch the way some of the tension melts away. Like he needs to hear that reassurance. Even though the pressure of the program should feel familiar, it’s still nice to remember that you have each other.
“I love you, too.”
“I know everything is kind of up in the air right now, but we’ll figure it out.”
“But, what if that means that there’s a country’s worth of distance between us?”
The unsaid words are plain as day behind the question. Your law school classes aren’t small, but it’s also not like university. You know everyone. Hear everything. Have too many stories of former classmates in the years ahead of you. The first year after graduating is tough. Important. There’s just over two months between graduation and sitting for the Bar exam. Then, you have to actually figure out how to practice. Depending on your area, that can mean insanely long hours as the lowly first year associate. There’s barely enough time to sleep or eat a balanced meal. Add in long distance and, well, you can see why Chan looks the way he does.
“Can we cross that bridge if we get to it?”
“Yeah, of course,” he says, but you see some of the tension return. You run your thumb along the back of his hand you’re still holding.
“Whatever happens, we’ll figure it out,” you assure him, speaking more to his hand because the emotions are hard. “You’re my best friend. I never thought I would feel this way. It’s like you slid into my life so quietly I didn’t realize. We’ll figure this out because we’re us.”
“I knew you’d fall for me,” he jokes. When you look up, his eyes sparkle in that way you love. In the way that makes the worries slip away, even for just a second.
“You’re persistent,” you concede with an eye roll.
“Come here.”
He pulls you into his body. You settle into his side like you have countless times before. At least for the time being, things feel like they’re going to be okay. Like you really can figure it all out as long as you have each other. The road ahead may be difficult. It may have cost countless relationships before. Maybe it’s naive, but you feel like you’ll be the ones who really can figure it out.
Some of the initial optimism about you and Chan fades once the offers start to trickle out. Everything about your future depends on where you end up after graduating. At least, that’s how it feels when you’re in the thick of it. When you hear from your top choice and it’s the equivalent of being put on the waitlist for a university, it crushes you. It’s competitive, you know that. Yet, you felt so sure. Your summer positions and letters of recommendation are top notch. It’s also in the exact right area that you and Chan think would be perfect for post graduation.
Of course, you have other options. You’ve worked your ass off in classes, sacrificed free time. All the while knowing that the end would justify the means. Now, you have to decide if you should wait to see if you end up getting an offer or just accept another choice. It’s everything you want and part of you thinks that it’s worth waiting. But, you also know that if you wait, you risk losing out on a guaranteed position. It’s hard to talk it out with Chan, too, because he says that he hasn’t heard from your top choice at all. You know he applied. Know that he’s an excellent option for them to hire as well. It feels cruel to talk to him about something that he wanted as well. If the positions had been reversed, you try to wonder what you would tell him. Try to wonder if you could be happy for him getting your dream position. You want to think you could.
Ultimately, you do talk to Chan about it because he’s your best friend and your biggest confidant. You want to know what options he has heard from and he wants to know the same as you. It makes your heart drop to know that one of the best offers he’s gotten really is across the country from your dream firm. Not that you didn’t know he applied, because you did, but he didn’t seem to think he would get it. Things feel even more real when he encourages you to not make any immediate decisions. He knows you can’t wait too long. Just thinks that it’s worth really thinking things through. Surely, people will be making their own decisions soon and maybe it means that your dream spot opens up.
It ends up being eerily prophetic. Two days later you get a call offering you the position. You know that you should tell them you need to consider it. Know that you shouldn’t make it obvious this is what you’re waiting for. Know that you should remember you weren’t the first choice.
You don’t.
Everything goes out the window and you accept the position right then and there. At least the person on the other end of the phone seems friendly. Not overly judgmental at your enthusiasm. It’s probably a good thing, after all. You’ll get your formal offer via email and more information closer to graduation.
Chan has his computer on his lap when you get back to your shared apartment. It’s still a bit of a weird feeling, sharing a space with him for your last year of school. As soon as he hears the front door shut, he looks up. Sees your face and it’s like he knows. Only smiles and asks if you got it. All you have a chance to do is nod enthusiastically before he jumps up and collects you into his arms. Peppers kisses all over your face and declares that the two of you need to celebrate. Everything feels light and easy again. Like you really can take on the world.
There’s another bump in the road when the high of getting your top choice wears off. Chan talks to you about which firms he’s gotten offers from and you realize what post graduation is going to look like. You encourage him to accept the position that puts him a plane ride away from you with a smile. With assurances that you’ll be fine, which you’re not sure either of you really believe. One thing is certain, though. Although he has options that put him closer to you and your firm, he can’t take them. Can’t even think about them. Because if he takes one of them, it’ll only be so he can stay close to you. It might seem fine at first. Maybe it seems fine forever. You just can’t take the chance it ends up causing resentment.
So, you have the conversation you didn’t want to have earlier. Realize just how much better life is with each other than it is separate. It’s going to be tough, but people survive distance in their relationships all the time. There’s FaceTime and you can plan trips. Can even do a lot of work remotely. That’s one thing you can thank the pandemic for. And before you actually start the positions, you can be each other’s support systems while studying. The prep courses all have online options. Who better to watch your mental breakdown over studying than someone else going through the same thing?
It all feels cautiously optimistic. It’s going to be hard, but you’ve already been together since your second semester of your first year. Going on two years already. And you have until the summer to be together every day. To iron out any of the details. To make plans for after graduation. And, most importantly, just enjoy the time where it’s easy to be by each other’s side.
You spend your last weekend before Chan becomes unavoidable wondering how to move forward. Although you don’t work with anyone else you graduated with, the legal community is small. Everyone knows where you went to school and what year you graduated. Even your assistant is able to put it together that you know Chan. Admittedly, she does know you better than most at the firm. At times she’s kind of like a diary. Still. Nobody at the firm knows about your history.
Four years ago, at the end of your final year of law school, Lee Chan took away a future for the two of you that seemed all but certain. That’s why you avoid being anywhere that he is at all costs.
Whoever says that time heals all wounds obviously doesn’t know what they’re talking about. Dulls them, sure. Teaches you how to get on with things. Teaches you what to look for in the next relationship. You’re not sure you’re healed, though.
Proving she knows you far better than she should, your assistant guesses correctly. Chan is the reason you don’t date other attorneys. Yes, it’s an ex relationship from law school before becoming attorneys. Still, the rule applies. After all, school isn’t what caused things to fall apart. You can’t help but think about when things were still good. Full of that cautious optimism that you could face whatever comes next together. It’s funny, in hindsight, how typical it all feels now.
As they say, though, the only way out is through. You try to keep hold of that energy as you prepare for a new week where you’ll get (re) acquainted with a new coworker. Try not to overthink that he’s going to be joining your team. Really, how else could it go? It’s not like the universe could take it easy on you and at least send him to another team. Not like you can fault him for wanting to come to a firm with so much name recognition. A firm, you remind yourself, that he also wanted four years ago.
When you wake up before your alarm, you figure you might as well do something with the nervous energy that won’t leave you alone. You don’t usually put a lot of effort into getting ready on the days you know you’ll just be in the office. It’s also the first Monday of the month, which means that the day starts with a team meeting run by your senior partner. You’ll be seeing Chan first thing in the morning. That’s definitely not the reason you take a little extra time picking out your outfit and doing your makeup, though. And definitely not the reason you woke up early.
Another positive about waking up a little earlier is that you have plenty of time to go to the good coffee shop. It’s not out of the way. It’s just popular. While you’re waiting in line, you fire off a quick text to your assistant telling her that coffee and a treat is on you, but she’ll have to wait to see what it is. You at least bring her coffee frequently, a fact that apparently makes some of the other assistants envious. Unfortunately, there’s not much you can do about the other attorneys beyond encouraging them. Taylor saves your ass on a weekly basis and you would be completely lost without her. Coffee seems like the very least you can do.
(When you actually get to the office and find her desk, you’re regretting your decision a little. Taylor wouldn’t be the best assistant imaginable if she didn’t know you inside and out. Of course it’s too much to ask that she let you live. No. Instead, she’s roasting you for looking so nice for the monthly meeting before she even thanks you for the coffee and pastry. Doesn’t actually thank you until you’re turning around to go into your office.)
Once it’s time for the meeting, you head over to the big conference room with Taylor since the first part is for the full staff before just the attorneys meet to catch up on the month ahead. You can feel Chan’s presence when you walk into the conference room before you see him. Or maybe it’s that you can feel a different energy. Others on the team are interested in meeting the new addition, which makes it easier to just quietly grab your seat. Taylor, thankfully, keeps her face impassive. For all the times she clowns you privately, she never does it when others could be involved. It’s part of why you love her so much.
You can’t stop yourself from glancing over at Chan, though. He looks exactly the same and somehow entirely different. His warm eyes still light up in the same way you remember when he smiles. Older though. Maybe a little bit wiser. But, his eyes still crinkle in the same way when he laughs. He’s still got that smile that makes everyone around him want to smile. His style is still mostly the same, just more expensive. Designer suits replacing something off the rack. Yet, he does it in a subtle way. Something unassuming that makes him seem quietly confident rather than arrogant. His hair isn’t dyed anymore, which makes sense in the situation. You’re just glad to see that he hasn’t cut it too short either.
It takes a moment to clock that he notices you looking at him. You spare him a small smile. One that would only seem forced to someone that knows you. Then, you cast your eyes down at the agenda on the pretense of finding it interesting. Ignore the way Taylor shifts from her position next to you. You can do this. There isn’t a choice. You’re going to get through this meeting and then continue to get through it all one day at a time.
The first part of the meeting is the same as always. Nothing remarkable. Nothing worth noting. Well, except for the senior partner praising Taylor for stepping up to help with a few cases. You had already taken her out to say thank you (on the firm’s dime), so this just feels like a way to boost her confidence even more. The next month doesn’t seem to be out of the ordinary, all things considered, so the first portion of the meeting runs quickly.
The second half is a little more difficult to get through. Once it’s only the attorneys, it’s harder to ignore Chan’s presence. Especially given that a large part of the meeting focuses on him stepping into his new case load. He’s replacing another associate, Henry, that decided to quit the legal field entirely out of the blue. Too burnt out. Not enough work-life balance. Just not his speed. It’s the usual list of reasons. He had, at least, stayed on long enough to tie up loose ends enough for the firm to find a replacement. That’s where Chan gets to come in. If he minds, he doesn’t show it. Only seems eager to prove himself. Your senior partner seems delighted. You wish that you had someone to turn to for support.
By the time the meeting winds down, you think that you might have managed to get out relatively unscathed. You still have to work with your ex. His office is still going to be right next to yours. But, you don’t have to interact with him beyond the niceties. Then, the senior partner calls your name as everyone gathers their things and your heart sinks.
“Yes?”
He turns to Chan with almost a fatherly smile. Of course. There’s always a familial smile when another man joins the team. You almost bite the inside of your cheek to help keep a neutral expression. To turn off the subtitles that your face comes with, as Taylor would put it. It’s a perfect mask when your boss turns back to you.
“I hear you and Chan were in the same class,” he starts and you feel the forced smile slip into place.
“That’s right,” you say in a falsely cheery tone.
“Why don’t you show our new ace around?”
“Oh, I…”
“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” Chan interjects and throws you an unreadable look. “I’m sure everyone here is busy.”
“Oh, nonsense. Nobody here knows Henry’s case files better than her. Those two were always putting their heads together. My best duo on the team.” the senior partner says. “His assistant will be able to get you to a point, but it’s good to have another set of eyes. What do you say?”
“Of course,” you answer after a moment. “Anything for the team.”
“Great,” he says and claps Chan on the back. “I’ll just leave the two of you to catch up.”
“So,” Chan says as soon as the door closes. Sticks his hands into his pockets and looks down. Like he’s the one who’s got the right to feel anything here.
“Henry kept things really organized and his assistant is actually great if you want to keep her,” you say.
“Oh, yeah. Well, I said I would.”
“Great. Your new office is this way.”
You walk past him without a second glance and trust that he’s following you. A moment later, he falls into step and you point out the different areas he might need. Conference rooms, a room with physical law volumes and past case law if he wants hard copies, one of the break rooms that’s closest. He nods along, but doesn’t say much.
When you reach his office door, you push it open and indicate for him to step in before you. It’s relatively sparse since Henry moved out of it. He left behind the desk, chair, and wooden cabinet that the firm paid for, as well as his own couch and coffee table.
“I’m sure the partners spoke to you about a budget if you’d like to replace anything,” you say, casting your eyes over the space. It feels empty, cold. Henry kept so many personal touches and reminders of life outside the office that you weren’t surprised when he shared that he was leaving. Your boss also hadn’t been lying. It’s hard to make friends at work, but Henry definitely qualified.
“They did,” he confirms as he looks around. His eyebrows knit together and he frowns a little. “I like what’s already here, actually. It feels…”
“Functional?”
“Familiar.”
“Oh.”
He turns to look at you and it’s the first time you realize you’re not the only person struggling in this situation. You take a deep breath before you can meet his eyes again.
“I, uh, I helped him pick it out,” you say and Chan raises his eyebrows. “The furniture.”
“Makes sense why it feels familiar.”
Part of him looks uncomfortable at the conversation and it takes you a minute to realize why. You’re speaking before you can even consider why it matters for him to know you were only friends.
“His partner absolutely vetoed taking it with him when he quit. Said they didn’t need reminders of the office,” you say with a fond laugh. Watching Henry meet his partner and fall in love had been wonderful.
Chan seems a little lighter, yet still unsure. “Sounds like he found what he was looking for.”
Your final year of law school hasn’t been easy, by any stretch. What they say is true, though. Your first year scares you to death. Second year works you to death. And third year bores you to death. So it hasn’t been easy, exactly. But, you feel like you’re sitting well with a job locked in (as long as nothing crazy happens with final grades), classes that feel more manageable, and a boyfriend that you love more than anything by your side. Every once in a while, you get a nagging feeling in the back of your mind. Like there’s something you should know or something you missed. You chalk it up to nerves about the future. As someone who likes a plan and likes to know what’s coming, it’s a little unnerving at times. Even with as prepared as you are. It’s impossible to plan for everything.
That becomes painfully obvious when you’re meeting with your advisor at the end of the year. She’s been a pillar of support for you over your time as a student. It’s been a different relationship to the ones you’ve had with previous advisors. Probably because she knows that you’re about to be an equal and treats you like one. That’s how all three years of school have been.
Just as you’re finishing up lunch, she turns the conversation to post graduation plans. Something you’re expecting, but not quite prepared for.
“Are you getting excited about getting into the legal world?”
“I think so,” you say. “Nervous and I hate that I’m going to be so separated from Chan, but I feel really fortunate to have gotten my top choice firm.”
“It was incredible that he did that for you,” she says and your brow furrows. Chan has been an incredible help throughout school, but you’re not sure what he has to do with you getting an offer. Your confusion must be plain on your face because your advisor continues. “I heard about him turning them down. He found out if he turned it down, then you’d get the call next.”
“He…what? He turned down the position so I could…”
Your brain is spiraling out of control trying to process the information. A million thoughts fight for dominance at the speed of light. Why would he do something like that without even telling you? Did he think that you couldn’t get a good position without his help? Did he think you would try to talk him out of doing it? He would probably have been right about that, at least. There’s no way you could have let him turn it down if it was something he wanted as well just so that you could have it. Not only because it’s not fair to him, but also because now it feels tainted to you. Undeserved. Like something you almost want to turn down even though you can’t this late in the year. Not now when plans are in place and you don’t have a fall back option.
Then, there’s the fact that you feel betrayed by the person you love the most in the world. Maybe that’s not fair. It’s still how you feel. He’s kept this from you for months. Told you that he didn’t get the position at all and focused on a position across the country. Didn’t even discuss what would make the most sense for the both of you as a couple. He decided something that impacted both of you. If he hadn’t turned it down, he could have accepted. Sure, part of you would have been envious. The other part of you knows you had another offer waiting that would have kept you both in the same area. It feels like the walls are collapsing in on you.
“I’m so sorry. I thought you knew…” she begins and you just shake your head. Try to blink back the tears of too much information pouring in at once.
“It’s fine. I have to go.”
The only thought you have is to get back to your apartment to find Chan. He should be home because he’s got the afternoon off from classes and he doesn’t like staying on campus if he doesn’t have to any more than you do. Too much tension. Too much stress.
He clocks that something’s wrong as soon as you come in the door. At first, he assumes it’s just that you’re sad about the end being so close and saying goodbye to your advisor. When he tries to offer a hug as comfort, you shrug out of it. Hurt flashes across his face and it makes your heart constrict. He’s the last person in the world you ever want to hurt. The last person in the world you ever thought would hurt you.
He did, though. Whatever his intentions were, he hurt you and has been keeping a secret for nearly the entire school year. It throws all your trust issues right back into the forefront of your brain. One-sided conversations chase each other around. Each worse than the last. Only one thought breaks through, though. And it’s probably the wrong decision. Yet, you’re going to make it anyway.
“I can’t do this,” you say to him without meeting his eye.
“Can’t do what? Graduate? Study for the bar exam?”
“No, this, Chan. You and me. I can’t do it.”
It’s obviously the last thing he expects. He steps back from you like he’s been slapped. And there’s the downside of knowing someone as well as you know him. You watch as the gears turn in his brain and he cycles through a million thoughts or feelings. Feel everything along with him.
“What?” is all he manages to say.
“I think we’re just fooling ourselves,” you say. A lie. A total and complete lie. You’re a coward. It’s easier for you than the truth, though. Easier than giving him a chance to justify a decision he made for both of you without asking you.
“I don’t understand…”
“We’re going to be so far apart. This first year after school, it’s so important. We’re going to be killing ourselves to make an impression. There’s no way we’re going to be able to figure out once a month weekends and working remote. I don’t even think we’ll be able to commit to regular FaceTime calls with the time difference.”
“Where is this coming from? We’ve talked about…”
“I know what we’ve talked about,” you cut through. It comes out sharper than you intend and you take a breath to steady yourself. “I know. I just also know how this could go. One of us misses a call from the other. Texts get more staggered. It’s harder to hold space for someone who’s not there while trying to make connections in a new position.”
“I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but we love each other.”
“Is that enough?”
It’s the second time he pulls back like he’s been slapped. If only you could tell him that you’re hurting yourself just as badly, maybe worse, than you’re hurting him.
“I think it’s enough. We’ll never know until we try though.”
“You took the position across the country.”
“Because you encouraged me to take it!”
“Of course I did!” you shout back, tears spilling over now. Chan goes to wipe them away before pulling his hand back. The tension hangs thick as you gather your thoughts. “I wouldn’t ever ask you to sacrifice your career or mine. I couldn’t.”
You see it. Just for a second. Know he’s wondering about a double meaning to your words. He shakes his head. Clears the look off his face.
“I didn’t see anything as sacrificing my career. We knew this was going to be complicated and I just figured we’d work through it together. If I’d have known the distance would be a deal breaker, I never would have accepted that job.”
“And I never could have lived with myself if you missed that opportunity,” you say softly. It’s an impasse. You’re picking a fight on an issue you know he’ll believe because it’s easier. Cleaner.
“It would have been my choice,” he says, eyes trying to convince you of the things he can’t say.
“I don’t want to end up hating you, Chan. I don’t want to end up resenting you because the distance is too hard.”
“So you’re going to break up with me instead?”
The question is a little derisive and the emotion looks all wrong on his face. That’s not the soft, kind, caring face you know. But, you’re the one that put that look on his face. Maybe it’s your punishment for being too scared to have the real fight.
“I know how it sounds. I still have love in my heart for you. I just think this is what’s best for us so that we can…I don’t know, save some of this.”
“Some of what?”
“This. Us,” you say and he just shakes his head.
“I don’t get you,” he admits and that hurts more than anything else. How could he feel that way after all this time?
“I just think…”
“I heard you,” he says sharply. And then he looks at you with another face you don’t recognize. One that’s hard and cold. “If you don’t think this is going to work, I know better than to try and change your mind. You’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met…”
“I’m not stubborn.”
He smiles despite himself at that. So on brand for you. “It’s always been one of the things I loved most about you. But, because I love you as much as I do, I can’t pretend to be less than this with you. I can’t go back to some semblance of a friendship when I know what it’s like to love you and be loved by you.”
Your heart stops for a second. Even though you started this, you’re not sure you want to finish it. Can’t imagine a life that doesn’t contain Chan at all, even though you’re so hurt by him. “Are you saying it’s all or nothing?”
“Yes.”
The simple answer says far more than you expect. You look down so that he can’t read the conflicting emotions on your face. It doesn’t matter. He still closes the distance, finally, and puts a finger under your chin to lift it up. Wipes the tears away from your face so gently. Presses a kiss to your forehead that only makes you hurt more. For a second, you reconsider everything.
“I don’t understand, but if this is what you want. What you really want. Then, okay. I just can’t go back to only being your friend. I need to protect my heart, too.”
There’s nothing left to say. You just wrap your arms around Chan and consider it’ll be the last time you feel his warmth enveloping you. It’s somehow the most dramatic and least dramatic break up that you can imagine. It feels both settled and unsettled. That’s probably what happens when you don’t have the strength to have the real fight. When you pick something that’s still real without being the whole picture.
It’s a little frustrating to watch Chan charm literally everyone in the office so quickly. Especially because his office is right next to yours and you can see the stream of people that pop in and out. Especially your coworkers who go to him to talk through cases now. Instead of you. Which is extra annoying because you’ve been here longer. Worked your ass off to prove yourself from being a junior associate to now. Whereas Chan benefits from a good reputation right off the bat. Granted, it’s not entirely the same thing. He’s new to the firm, but not the practice of law. So, it tracks that he doesn’t need to go through the same things you did joining straight out of school. The rational part of you knows he probably dealt with that at his original firm. Doesn’t make it any less annoying, though.
Everyone just instantly likes him. And that’s not really that surprising, either, is it? In so many ways, he’s still exactly the person you knew and loved in law school. The person that could make anyone feel comfortable. The one that liked to be at the center of things. Always happiest surrounded by people. It’s no different now, which makes it hurt that much more. So much of him still feels so familiar to you years later. It makes the memories harder to keep tucked away in a little box. He’s grown, sure, like you know that you have as well. He’s still inescapably Chan, though. The time since school hasn’t hardened him. Hasn’t made him jaded. Wiser, maybe. A little more cautious in things, sure. Still upbeat despite that. When you put aside all the pain it brings back to the front, you can admit that you understand why people accept him so immediately.
After a day filled with too many meetings and phone calls, you decide to stay late to catch up on some cases. Even though you know you can also work from home, sometimes it just feels easier to stay at the office. You know yourself. Once you settle down on your couch with your laptop and the TV in front of you, you’re far less likely to be productive. Far more likely to scroll or talk to friends or watch something. So, you close your door, put some headphones on, and get to work.
By the time you look up again, it’s just after 8 o’clock and you’re not sure when it got so late. If not for the grumble of your stomach, you may have just kept working. As it is, you consider if there’s anything in the break room that can hold you over. You’re so close to feeling caught up that it feels like a shame to go home and break the flow. You stretch out your limbs and stand to go on what feels like a pointless mission. There’s so rarely anything worthwhile in the breakroom because it gets snatched up immediately. What you’re not expecting, though, is to open the door to your office and nearly run into a very surprised looking Chan.
His eyes go wide and he steps back, hand falling to his side. It seems like he was about to knock on your door. The surprise of not being alone in the office turns into surprise at seeing him outside of your office. There’s a bag in his other hand that looks like some kind of takeout. You pull your headphones off your head and the silence of the office washes over you. That same silence stretches awkwardly between you and your ex.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he starts.
“It’s fine. I didn’t realize anyone else was still here,” you say. Awkward. It’s so awkward and stilted between the two of you now.
“Ah, yeah, I still feel like I’m trying to get a handle on some of these cases,” he says. He rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s a stark contrast to the confident Chan you know and see around the office. “I saw your light on under your door.”
“I was just catching up on some cases. It’s always something,” you say and he chuckles a little in agreement.
He holds up the bag of food and you finally realize it’s from a place around the corner that you love. “I figured you probably hadn’t eaten either and there’s nothing good in the break room.”
“That’s where I was headed.”
“I ordered something for you when I was ordering for myself and I was just gonna drop it off so I didn’t bother you…”
You sigh in resignation and step to the side to make room in the doorway. “Come on in. We can eat together.”
“Really? I don’t want to…”
“It’s fine,” you say and cut it off before he can make it more awkward. Can’t fully resist making a joke. “I know how much you hate to eat alone, anyway.”
“Which is very reasonable,” he retorts and you roll your eyes. He sits down at the small table you have and you put your headphones on your desk. Then you settle down at the table with him.
“This place is good.”
That makes him look up from his task of pulling containers out of his bag. Seems to surprise him a little. “You eat here?”
“Not all the time. It’s just close so I’ll order it sometimes for lunch or if I’m staying late.”
“Huh. I’ve only had it once so far, but figures it’s a place you like,” he says and chuckles. It puts you a little on edge, though.
“What does that mean?” you ask, more bite than you intend. He looks like a deer in headlights for a minute and you remember being 1Ls together. Fight the urge to apologize.
“Oh, just, nothing,” he says and quickly regains his composure. “I just meant…never mind.”
“No, sorry,” you say. Let the tension go from your shoulders. “It’s just that this is…”
“Hard?”
“And a bit weird, yeah,”
“We work together now and I get it’s weird. I’m not going to bring personal stuff into work, but I also can’t pretend I didn’t know you better than anyone in the world when it’s after hours like this and we’re the last two here,” he says and you look down into your lap.
“I didn’t realize everyone else had already left,” you say because it’s easier than what’s on your mind.
“Seems like we’re the only hard workers,” he jokes and you roll your eyes. At least it feels like you can look up again to take in the food.
“What did you order, anyway?”
In response, Chan pushes some of the food over to you. Of course, it’s one of your go-to orders on the menu. Something you’re not sure you can admit to the ex sitting across from you. Some things really don’t change.
“If you don’t want that, I also got…”
“No, it’s…exactly what I usually get.”
You pull the food towards you, realizing that you are kind of starving now that you’re sitting down to eat something. Once again, Chan seems to follow your lead. Lets you set the pace and tone. The two of you eat for several minutes in silence that doesn’t feel that comfortable. Once upon a time, it would have felt as natural as breathing. Now, for all the ways he’s the same, he’s also a stranger to you. When you meet his eye, you wonder if he’s thinking all the same things as you. Wonder if he’s thinking about your relationship and when it all fell apart. Wonder why he came to this firm when he probably could have gone anywhere. Wonder how you’re going to get through all of this.
“We can’t keep acting like we don’t know each other,” he says softly. So much for the silence.
“I’m not acting like I don’t know you, Chan,” you say. Tired. This whole thing takes up entirely too much space in your brain.
“No?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows we went to the same school. I’m not pretending we didn’t know each other. I’m just pretending we weren’t…”
“In a relationship?”
Same old Chan, you think. There’s just something about him that always cuts through everything to the point. Which, of course, makes a good lawyer. But, he also manages it in a way that doesn’t sound arrogant. Makes it sound like he just cares about the answer.
“I guess, yeah,” you admit. “I don’t really need the partners clued into my personal life like that.”
“Is that the reason?”
There’s something unreadable on his face. Something you can’t place no matter how hard you try. Maybe it’s a hardness. A sense of the walls going up. It feels foreign when he still looks so much like the person you loved.
“I don’t really want people to know that the person who broke my heart now has the office next to me. So, yeah, I’d say it’s the reason,” you say and watch the shock take over his face. Maybe it’s too honest. Maybe you shouldn’t…
“The person who broke your heart?” he asks and it stops your spiral short.
“Yes?”
“I broke your heart?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s some bullshit revisionist history you’ve got going on there.”
That brings you up short as well. Revisionist history? For saying he broke your heart? It occurs to you, then, that you didn’t ever give him the real reason. Surely, though, after all this time he must know. Must have worked it all out. He’s always been one of the smartest people you know.
“I’m not sure how…” you start.
“You broke my heart. That’s how I remember it. And I’m still here trying to follow your lead and bringing dinner because I know you forget to eat when you get too focused,” he says and your eyes widen.
“I am sorry that I broke it off so suddenly back then. I guess I just figured after all this time that you’d…”
“Be over it?”
“Have figured out why I really broke up with you.”
Now it’s his turn to look a little surprised. You hate it though because it makes him look younger. Reminds you of the person you fell in love with. “You could have talked to me about whatever was going on.”
“Funny, I could say the same of you.”
“We talked about everything.”
“Yeah, I thought so too,” you say and hate that it still comes out sounding bitter.
“What are you talking about?”
For his part, he does look confused. Does genuinely seem like he’s not sure what you mean. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse. Probably worse, you think. Maybe he doesn’t dwell on the relationship the way you do. Or maybe he didn’t know you as well as you thought to be able to work out your thought process. Maybe you just should have had the real fight.
Enough. It’s been long enough. One of you needs to bridge this gap and it’s long past time for a candid conversation. Even if nothing else changes, the two of you need to clear the air. “I thought we talked about everything. I thought things were good.”
“They were,” he insists. “It came totally out of the blue when you…”
“Did you think I would never find out?” you ask suddenly, cutting across him. You look around the office and take in all the signs of your hard work over the past four years. Before he can answer, another thought escapes. “I thought this firm was everything I wanted back then.”
“I know,” he says softly and you look back at him.
“How could you do that without talking to me? How could you think I wouldn’t find out?” you ask and see the realization hit him. Watch the moment that his whole body slackens. Watch the way his mouth opens and closes. The way he frowns in thought. The way he leans back in his chair like he’s buying time to figure out what to say. There was a time, years ago, that he would just say something right away. This new, more thoughtful version of him is a sign that you’re both older now.
“What was I supposed to say? You would have tried to talk me out of doing it,” he says as if that’s a valid reason.
“Of course I would have!”
“See?”
“How is that a ‘see’ moment?”
“Because it was your dream position and you wouldn’t have let me make this decision if you had known.”
You frown. Take a beat to collect your thoughts. If you’re having this conversation, it needs to be right. You need to say the things you should have said back then. It takes you a moment to gather your thoughts, during which Chan is, thankfully, silent.
“I know I wanted it, but you wanted it too. It shouldn’t have been something you decided without me,” you say and hold up your hand when he opens his mouth. He falls silent again. “It was a conversation. If you still decided to give up the offer, then that would be your decision. I still deserved to know, though. I had other options I was nearly as excited about close by. You didn’t.”
Chan waits for a moment. Probably to see if you’re done speaking. Or possibly to weigh his next words. “Are you telling me that you would have let me give this firm up if I had told you?”
“I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. It’s honest, at least. “I just know you can’t make decisions like that on your own. We were supposed to be a team. Then to just get blindsided with the information at the end of the year…”
“Yeah, how did you find out?” he asks and you give him a withering stare. He throws up his hands. “Sorry, I’m just curious.”
“My advisor mentioned it in our meeting and that was another whole level of feeling betrayed because there were all these people who apparently knew. Who thought that I knew.”
“I am sorry for causing you to feel betrayed,” he says after a moment.
“It was just…a lot,” you admit. “Like, I felt like you didn’t trust me. Then, I felt like you thought I couldn’t get in here without a leg up from you. And I felt like our relationship wasn’t that important because by giving up this offer, you took one that took you clear across the country.”
“I don’t think there was a right answer to that, honestly,” he says and you raise your eyebrows. “Even if I had talked to you, I’m not sure if there was any right answer. If I took the position and you took one of your backups, I would worry you resented me for getting it over you. If I still ended up turning it down, I’d worry you wouldn’t feel like you could enjoy deserving it. Or we would still break up because of the distance.”
“I guess that’s a fair point,” you concede.
“I am sorry,” he reiterates. “I didn’t stop to consider how you would feel if you found out. I just wanted you to have everything you deserved.”
“I appreciate that,” you start. Take a deep breath because you know you have something to say as well. “I’m sorry, too. I was so hurt that I never stopped to consider that I was also hurting you by not talking to you.”
“We kind of fucked that one up, huh?” he asks and you chuckle.
“We really did,” you agree.
“So, friends?” he asks, eyes hopeful. You roll your eyes again, though there’s less irritation behind it now.
“Don’t push it.”
Things mostly feel easier after clearing the air with Chan. Outwardly, nothing really seems that different apart from the two of you working together more. Then again, most of the firm doesn’t know you’re also exes. Taylor notices the shift in interaction, of course, but doesn’t comment on it beyond giving you a look when she clocks that you’re being nicer. It’ll probably be one of those things that she keeps in her back pocket until the right time. A complete demon and yet you know there’s nobody better out there.
The following weeks pass in kind of a blur. Work carries on. Cases move forward. It’s actually kind of nice to be on speaking terms with Chan again because he’s an incredible sounding board. One that knows how your brain works. One that can point out the flaws in your thought process without you ever voicing them because he’s seen you work through countless case studies before. And one that’s equally willing to reassure you when you’re already on the right track with handling a case. It’s not that you really question it often. Sometimes, one little detail throws the entire plan off and it can be difficult to tell if that detail actually matters or if it’s just something to downplay.
That’s when other attorneys on the team start to notice what they assume is a growing friendship with you and Chan. Without knowing the history, it looks like the two of you bond quickly. Sure, most reason it away. Assume that you must have at least hung out sometimes going to the same school. A couple wonder if there’s something else going on. Something Taylor assures you that she shuts down quickly. According to her, it comes from a couple of the other assistants and paralegals that find him attractive. Can’t fault them for something that is obvious and, objectively, true. You still have eyes even if you’re trying to navigate a friendship with your ex in very unusual circumstances.
The man in question pops his head into your office one Friday afternoon. You’re expecting the usual case question. Although, sometimes he does switch it up and say something just entirely off the board. Every few days he seems to just come up with something ridiculous to ask you to catch you off guard.
“Are you going to the happy hour after work?” he asks. Apparently, today it isn’t either of the usual suspects. It makes you look up from your computer. “Joshua just asked if I wanted to come and he said you’re usually hit or miss.”
“Of course he did,” you say with a shake of your head. Joshua is the team lead for your group and probably on track to be a partner down the line. Despite that, he’s still incredibly easy to be around. The kind of guy you probably wouldn’t realize is an attorney without knowing. He’s also perpetually trying to get everyone out together to unwind outside of work. Thankfully, he also keeps everything within the team and never repeats it to the partners. Too good for a place like this, you think. “No, I’m not going. Not this time.”
“Oh is it…is it lame?” Chan asks after he steps into your office so he can drop his voice.
“What?” you ask, surprise evident. “No, not at all. I really like Joshua. He just loves to gossip within the team when I don’t show up for the happy hour.”
“Ah,” Chan says and smiles. He looks behind him and then drops his voice again. “So, it’s safe to go, then?”
“Oh, definitely,” you say softly in return. “Honestly, you can trust going whenever he invites you because he’s intentional about it.”
“Good to know,” Chan says and straightens back up. “Why aren’t you going then?”
“Oh, uh,” you say. Hesitate. The actual reason is that you’re going on a date. Is that something you share with your ex, though? Probably, if you’re trying to navigate a friendship. It’s not like he’s waiting for you to give him another chance. You’re coworkers and working back to some kind of friendship. It’s the kind of thing you would share with Joshua if he asks.
“Sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry.”
You shake it off and put on a smile. “No, it’s fine. I just have a date tonight.”
“Ah,” Chan says and it sounds different from the earlier one. That face that was once an open book is unreadable now. Then, a bright smile. “First date?”
“Uh, no, actually. We’ve been out a few times,” you say and Chan nods along. You’re not sure why you carry on. That’s really all he needs to know. “It’s tough with our schedules, though, you know?”
“Yeah, dating is hard. I haven’t been on a date in ages,” he says and then seems to cringe a little. Maybe a little unsure why he’s sharing that with you of all people.
“Maybe you’ll meet someone at happy hour,” you say awkwardly. Chan looks at you for a moment to process the last comment and you want to kick yourself.
“You never know,” he says with a falsely bright smile and a shrug. “Maybe I’ll see you at it next time.”
“Yeah, for sure,” you agree.
Just like that, he’s out of your office and you want to crawl under your desk to die. No such luck when Taylor walks in and shuts the door behind her under the guise of talking through the upcoming schedule. It’s not unusual. In fact, it’s something you do multiple times a week. It’s not her reasoning this time, though. This time, she informs you that she heard the entire conversation with Chan (because she was intentionally eavesdropping outside the door). Naturally, she shares her thoughts after hearing you call her a demon for the hundredth time.
Then, because the universe is fair, Joshua pops his head into your office just after Taylor leaves to mention happy hour. It’s a small comfort that he doesn’t know you have a date because it means that Chan isn’t talking about it. But, you have to share the date news with Joshua as well and deal with all his teasing over it. At least it’s good natured. Joshua seems to accept this excuse for not going without missing a beat. Even wishes you luck and commiserates that dating sucks. It really reinforces why you think he’s such a good guy.
After that interruption, the rest of the day thankfully passes without any other awkward moments. It feels like a small victory that you wrap up your day without falling through a hole in your office waiting to swallow you (and any ensuing embarrassment). Briefly, you consider popping your head into Chan’s office as you’re locking up your own. Can see his door is still open, meaning he probably hasn’t left for the happy hour yet. But, Joshua comes around the corner with his signature smile and you settle for calling out a generic wish for a good weekend. Once he gets a little closer, you jokingly tell him to behave himself at happy hour and not to get the team too drunk. Because things aren’t entirely fair, Chan appears in his doorway during this and gives you another smile. You tell them to have fun again and make as quick a departure as possible without it being more awkward.
Once you leave the office, you know you cannot focus on anything going on there. Cannot consider the happy hour or who’s going to be there. It’s hard enough to date as it is and the last thing you need is to let yourself get distracted from a genuinely good person. Parker’s a nurse in pediatrics and he actually cares about kids. Doesn’t get hung up the way some doctors seem to with some kind of God complex. All he wants is to help kids feel healthy and safe. And more than that, he actually cares about people. Wants everyone to have the same access to basic human rights like food, housing, education, safe conditions, opportunities, etc etc etc. He listens when you speak and actively seeks out your opinion. If this is how he approaches you after only a handful of dates, you wonder what he’ll be like down the line?
Even though Parker’s schedule can be crazy, it feels like he’s intentional when he sees you. Keeps his phone tucked away and gives you his full focus. Only a true work emergency could interrupt your time, something he stresses as a non-negotiable for him. How can you know if it’s something serious if you don’t give it a chance? Each new date shows that he does actually listen and tries to put a little of each of you into the plans. And you love his philosophy of not going out to dinner on the first date because it can force awkward conversations or even worse silences. By the time the second date comes around and he takes you to dinner, it does feel so much easier. Parker seems like he checks off all the boxes on the list you insist doesn’t actually exist.
There’s only one problem. Well, can you call it a problem if you’re not sure what the problem actually is?
Parker is perfect both on paper and seemingly in person. A great match for you. Someone who respects you and everything that you want. Someone who makes you laugh and is considerate and kind and smart and insanely attractive. Yet, despite all the reasons you know that he’s perfect, you still feel like something is missing. There’s something that’s just…not there. He’s not the guy you settle for. Nobody who dates him could ever consider it settling.
So why does that feel like what you’re doing?
By the time you end up back at work on Monday, you’ve mostly put any weirdness from the end of the previous week behind you. It’s amazing what a good therapy session (read: brunch with your closest friends) on a Sunday can do. You’re just feeling a little off having your ex working on the other side of your office wall. It’s to be expected, really. Everything is going to be fine. Your relationship with Parker will keep growing. Seeing Chan will get easier. You repeat it to yourself all the way to work and believe it by the time you get there. You walk into your office and offer smiles on your way.
This is going to be a good week.
Or, is it? You consider a lot of things for the upcoming week. Your team lead coming into your office in the first hour of new week doesn’t make the list. Yet, there he is. Looking as put together as always. Eyes alight with some kind of concealed mischief. The kind he only lets those he actually trusts see. That sight actually makes you relax back into your chair. Which is likely the opposite of a normal reaction. But you know it means that he’s here to gossip. Probably, at least. Definitely not to talk about work.
“You missed a fun happy hour,” he says and you nearly snort. Of course.
When it’s early in the day (and on a Monday, no less), it’s safe enough to chat. People are so worried about getting the week started that they don’t bother with other people’s conversations. Well, people other than Taylor. But, you trust her and so Joshua does, too.
“You say that every time,” you point out. Because he does.
“This was different.”
He says that every time, too. You don’t need to point it out. Instead, you just play along. It feels like the least you can do for a lead you actually like. “Okay, I’ll bite. Why was it different?”
“Chan, obviously. I cannot believe I haven’t invited him out yet! Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks. Gives you a look of mock betrayal and you actually let out a small snort while trying to cover your laugh.
“Tell you what, exactly?”
“That he’s a magnet for attention. He’s so attractive that they just couldn’t stay away.”
It makes your heart constrict for a moment to hear that. You don’t give yourself time to think about why. Not in front of Joshua. You like him a lot, but you’re not ready to talk about that. And he will definitely notice something is up. So you do the only thing that you can think of to disarm him.
“Joshua,” you say, fixing him with a look, “you are an incredibly attractive guy that people can’t stay away from.”
It works. At least enough to cover you for a moment. For all his confidence, he does get shy when you give him compliments. Maybe because he knows you don’t give them out as easily. Or because he knows that you mean it. You’re not prepared for the pout that follows, though you should be.
“Not attractive enough for you to come to happy hour more often, apparently,” he says and you actually roll your eyes.
“I was on a date,” you remind him and he puts a hand to his heart.
“And not with me. You wound me.”
“This is harassment. I’m going to call HR.”
“And say what? Marjorie loves me.”
He’s got you there. She does love him. Everyone loves him, honestly. It’s kind of hard not to with that easy air about him. It’s more impressive knowing how cutthroat he can be on a case.
“You know, Joshua, it kind of sounds like you were just looking for a wingman,” you say and he shrugs, that sparkle back in his eyes.
“Maybe I was,” he admits and leans in. “I don’t think we paid for any drinks after the first one.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you let those poor women buy you drinks?” you ask incredulously.
“Why not?”
“Joshua, I know what you make!”
“Now what kind of a feminist would I be if I told those women how to spend their money?”
“Unbelievable,” you say through a laugh. He laughs along with you before settling down.
“I did actually try to cover it, but they insisted,” he says and you smile along. You know, even without him telling you. That’s just the kind of person he is.
“Maybe I will have to come to the next one. See you in your element,” you say, though the idea fills you with mixed emotions.
“It was nice to get to know Chan, though,” he says after a moment. “I was a little surprised that he didn’t strike up a conversation with anyone. But, I guess we were doing a lot of talking.”
“It’s good for you to get to know a new member of the team,” you say noncommittally.
Joshua looks around and you know that look well. It worries you for a moment. When he determines the coast is, evidently, clear, he leans in and drops his voice. “He actually told me he had a serious girlfriend from law school that took him a long time to get over. That they broke up just before graduating. It seems like he regrets whatever happened. Did you know her?”
At least it’s easy to mask your reaction here because he gives you the perfect out. “Joshua, you are so nosey.”
It doesn’t determine in the slightest. He’s unabashed. “Come on, do you? You were in the same class. You must know who he meant.”
“Sure, I know who he meant,” you say with as much neutrality as you can manage. “The school wasn’t that big. But, I’m not telling you. That’s his business. And it’s been 4 years since we graduated. I’m sure it was just the alcohol talking.”
“I don’t know,” Joshua says, more contemplative for a moment. “It seemed like he’d been thinking about her recently.”
You only hum in response and make a show of looking back at your computer when the ding from Teams lets you know that you have a new message. You roll your eyes. “I swear to god.”
“That looks promising,” he says with an amused chuckle before rising to his feet. He turns back to you at the door. “Were you friends?”
“Hm?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from the screen to look back up at him.
“You and Chan. I know you were in the same graduating class, but were you friends?”
The answer comes quicker than you expect. And comes out sounding neutral, to your surprise. “I’m not sure if friends is quite the right word.”
It’s not a lie. Not exactly. You and Chan were a lot of things to each other, friends certainly being one such thing. But, to say that you were only friends doesn’t feel honest, either.
“Ah, well, glad you seem to be working together now. Don’t forget, we’re doing a team lunch tomorrow so make sure you have your order in before you leave tonight.”
“Got it,” you say and he waves before heading back to his own office.
Another two weeks pass at work. Things don’t feel quite the same as they did with Chan after having that dinner and talking. You’re still getting along well, for the most part. It’s just that he keeps it more professional. Doesn’t act like he knows your mind quite as well. Instead, he gets closer to other members of the team again. It shouldn’t irritate you and yet…
When Joshua tells you that he’s going to kidnap you so you don’t miss the next happy hour, you just agree without issue.
Which is how you end up sitting at a hightop in the bar area with Joshua, watching how some of the other team members interact. It’s actually kind of nice, being out like this. Something you don’t want to admit to Joshua, though he can likely see it on your face. You follow his gaze and see Chan standing at the bar getting another round of drinks with a gorgeous woman trying to get his attention. Try not to let it twist your stomach. Of course, you know that he dates. He should date. But, it’s very different to see someone actively hitting on him.
“See what I mean?” Joshua asks, unnecessarily calling your attention to Chan.
“He’s charismatic,” you say, voice surprisingly even.
“I need him as a wingman.”
“You know what probably isn’t helping you?”
Joshua turns back to you and raises an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Sitting here with me. People might get the wrong idea,” you say and smile as he barks out a laugh.
“We both know you’re way out of my league,” he says and you laugh harder. “What? You are?”
“Oh, please,” you say between laughs. “How many times have we gone through this?”
“One more doesn’t hurt,” he says, that demonic twinkle in his eyes.
“You wear me out,” you say.
“I could if you’d let me.”
“Stop!”
“I know, I know,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I know the rule.”
“Oh, yes, that’s the only reason,” you retort sarcastically, but you’re smiling.
Nobody else can get away with saying shit like that to you. At least, nobody else that you work with. Joshua gets special privileges, though. Which, unfortunately, he knows all too well. It’s mostly because you know he doesn’t mean it, not really. Maybe, on some level, you would both consider it in another life. Not this one. The two of you work so well as friends and there just isn’t anything more there. No spark. No interest. An appreciation that you’re both attractive. Because, yes, you have eyes and he’s definitely gorgeous. That’s where it ends.
Chan approaches the table, balancing drinks carefully in his hands, and sets them down before either of you notice. When you do, you give him a smile.
“What did I just walk into?” he asks cautiously. Joshua turns to him with that winning smile.
“Oh, just me teasing her,” he says. “I saw you over there getting hit on and had to point out that this one here is way out of my league.”
Your cheeks flush a little. It’s not that you don’t want Chan to realize the way you and Joshua tease each other. It’s just that, well, you don’t want your ex seeing you interact like that with someone else you both work with. It’s awkward. Chan, for his part, seems to feel more awkward about the first comment. Interesting.
“Ah, she wasn’t…” he starts and Joshua cuts him off.
“Man, I saw her. She would have left with you right then and there,” Joshua says.
Awkward. It’s so awkward. Chan slides back into his seat with the two of you and shrugs.
“I’m not interested,” Chan says.
“I know last time you said…” Joshua starts.
“Well, what about you?” Chan cuts across.
“I was just saying that!” you agree. “He’s never going to get any numbers if he’s just sitting here with me.”
“That’s why I said she was out of my league,” Joshua shares with Chan.
“She’s right, though,” Chan says with a shrug.
“Eh, I don’t really come out looking to get numbers, anyway,” he says and you laugh at the surprise on Chan’s face.
“What do you come out for, then?”
You and Joshua share a look before you both start laughing. You’re the first to regain your composure. “The chaos.”
“Nice,” Chan says with a snort.
“Consider yourself lucky. He doesn’t let everyone in so quickly,” you tease.
“No, that’s true,” Joshua agrees easily and then his eyes catch on something. “Oh, hang on. I’ll be right back!”
And then he’s gone. Just like that. Just like so many other times. It feels a little awkward, even with the help of some liquid courage. You’re not really used to being around Chan yet. Not sure if you ever will be.
“Is he always like that with you?” Chan asks after a moment when it becomes clear that Joshua isn’t going to rush back.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Saying things like you’re out of his league.”
You laugh and then realize Chan is at least partly serious. It makes you pull up a little short. “Yeah, pretty much. He doesn’t mean anything by it, so it doesn’t really bother me.”
“Are you sure he doesn’t mean anything by it?”
You fix your ex with an unimpressed stare that makes him throw up his hands in defense. “Yeah, Chan, I’m sure he doesn’t. We’re just friends, as much as you can be working together like this.”
“That makes sense,” Chan says and takes a sip of his drink. “He does seem like the kind of person that you’d be friends with.”
From anyone else, that might sound a little passive aggressive. Or like it means something else. You know what he means, though. Joshua is exactly your kind of friend. Serious when he needs to be, chaotic all other times. It just flows easily. Never feels like work. And somehow, Chan making that observation, makes things feel a little less awkward. At least for the time being.
The night descends further into chaos, in a way that it doesn’t usually when you go out for happy hour. Maybe that’s because happy hour turns into apps. Which turns into more drinks. Which turns into more apps. It even includes a change of scenery from one place to the next when you realize that you all might need to put a little more food into your stomachs. By then, only Joshua, Chan, and you are left. Which actually feels kind of nice. Somehow having Joshua has an unknowing third wheel makes any remaining awkwardness with Chan melt away. Of course, it could also be the alcohol and the light atmosphere.
Eventually, you do all realize that you need to head home and start the process of paying your bills. When you and Chan both go to pull out your phones to order Ubers, Joshua gives you a quizzical look. One you’re not sure you like. Thankfully, he clarifies immediately.
“Why wouldn’t you both just share one?” he asks and your eyes go cartoon character levels of wide.
“Uh,” Chan says and gives you a look.
“You live in the same building,” Joshua carries on and that only confuses you more.
“No we don’t,” you contradict like it’s the silliest thing in the world.
“Yes, you do,” he insists. “Chan told me where he lived last week when we went to happy hour. Skyline Grove?”
“Oh,” you both say at the same time like it’s brand new information.
“I haven’t run into you around,” you say and Chan shrugs. “Weird.”
“It’s a nice building,” Chan says.
“And massive. I should’ve mentioned it, but I figured you’d realize,” he says. “Anyway. Why waste money when you’re going to the same place?”
It’s such a simple suggestion and yet it sends your stomach lurching all the same. The two of you look at each other for a moment, but this is a crossroads. It doesn’t make any sense at all to say no. You and Chan are going to the same place. Of course, you could lie and say you’re actually going somewhere else. Except happy hour went way longer than expected and it’s clear you don’t have other plans. You’re just…not really sure you wanna be alone in a car with Chan when you’re a little buzzed.
“This one’s on me, then?” Chan asks, giving you a surprisingly nonchalant look.
“What a gentleman,” Joshua says and claps Chan on the shoulder. He pulls out his own phone. “That’s usually my title.”
“Because you gave it to yourself,” you mutter, putting your phone away.
“I heard that.”
“I meant you to.”
Thankfully, the Ubers come quickly. Chan opens the door and lets you slide in before him. Something that Joshua doesn’t seem to notice since he’s getting into his own car. You settle into one side of the car and try not to look over to the side next to you. Don’t realize that Chan is having just as much of an internal struggle as you are.
“I didn’t realize we lived in the same building,” he says after the silence starts to feel too heavy.
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s one of the nicest places in the area,” you say.
“And there was one of those corner units available. The views are so nice,” he says and you laugh.
“Up on the 18th floor?” you ask and watch the way his brows furrow.
“Yeah…”
“They offered it to me when the last tenant decided not to renew because I’d mentioned wanting to possibly move to a higher floor. But, I’m all settled now,” you say. Then, like you can’t help yourself, you tell him where you live. “I’m in that same unit but on the 10th floor.”
“Well, we always did have similar taste in apartments,” he says with an ironic laugh.
“Guess so,” you say.
“Thanks,” he says suddenly and you turn to look at him. His face is mostly in shadow with it being so dark outside, but your brain fills in the blanks without even realizing it.
“For what?”
“Not making it weird to just share a car.”
“Oh, well, we’re going to the same place.”
“Does he know?”
“Who?”
Chan sighs and fully turns his head towards you. You can read the look in his eyes even in the low light. Or maybe it’s just another thing you remember. “Joshua. Does he know about…”
“No,” you say immediately. “No, Chan, nobody at the office does. Well, apart from my assistant, but she guessed. Joshua isn’t so cruel that he would do that if he knew.”
“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“No, I know you didn’t…”
It’s awkward again. Thankfully, you’re nearly at the apartment building now. It’s also nice that the Uber driver doesn’t comment on the situation. He’s probably seen worse in the city on a Friday night, though. Once he pulls over in front of the building, Chan opens the door and slides out. Holds it open for you to do the same so that you don’t have to get out on the side with traffic.
You’re not really sure what to do now. So, you step forward to scan into the building and hold the door for Chan behind you. The two of you make your way to the elevators in silence. It’s a little surprising to find the lobby so quiet on a Friday night. But, people are probably either waiting until it’s a little later to go out or already wherever they plan to be. It’s that weird in between time. That means that it’s just the two of you in the elevator. Chan presses your floor and then his own. When the door opens, you turn to him and try to find the words. He only smiles.
“See you at work on Monday,” he says and you only nod before heading out. Don’t look back to see the way he watches your back down the hallway.
The whole night just feels a little surreal from the safety of your apartment. You toe off your shoes and set your things down on the table by the door. Only grab your phone and head into the kitchen. Even though you know you should just grab a glass of water, you also pour a small glass of wine. A lot of your buzz has worn off and all you can think about is the car ride. Or the way that Chan looked all night. Or the way that women just seemed to flock to him. Not that the last bit should matter when you’re seeing someone.
Parker. You need to think about Parker. Maybe even check to see if you have any messages from him. Not that you owe him a play-by-play of your whereabouts. It’s one of the things you like about him. That and the freedom that he agrees to so easily. You both have the same philosophy when it comes to dating in your late 20s. Don’t put pressure or labels on something when you’re only a few dates in. But, also don’t leave things lingering without an actual conversation. You know you’re probably getting close to that point of needing to talk. Which is fine, he’s great.
So, why is your brain still wandering back to the way Chan looked at the bar? The way his shirt looked a little tight in places or the way his pants fit. He’s always had a good fashion sense, but…
No. You cannot do this to yourself or you’ll drive yourself crazy. This is a door that needs to stay firmly shut. You’re considering if you should pour yourself a bigger glass of wine when there’s a knock at the door. It at least serves to pull you out of whatever dangerous path your brain wants to go down.
You get up, set the wine glass down on the table, and walk slowly to the door. Forget to check who it is through the peephole before just opening the door. A mistake, obviously, because there he is. The man you can’t seem to get off your mind. The one you know you can’t revisit the past with. He’s wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants. Like he couldn’t wait to change after getting home.
“Sorry, I just…” he starts and the rational part of your brain shuts down completely.
No thoughts, just desires, as you reach forward and grab him by the shirt. Pull him over the threshold and against your body. Surprise flashes over his face for the briefest moment before he collects you against his chest and kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Like you can’t remember him ever kissing you before. You nip at his lower lip and he responds by squeezing your ass. Distantly, you register that your door is still open. It seems Chan also realizes it because he crowds further into your space and uses his foot to close the door behind him. Doesn’t break the kiss, though.
It isn’t even really clear which one of the two of you is in control. That, at least, feels normal. Familiar. Even though everything else feels new. He spins the two of you around and backs you up into the door. Claims your mouth as his own over and over. Each kiss more demanding than the last. You slide your hands up under the hem of his shirt and run your hands up his back. Appreciate the way he shivers under your touch. It’s so easy to fall back into this pattern. To remember all the things that drive him crazy.
Seems like it’s just as easy for him to remember. He uses one hand to anchor your hip against the door behind you while he pulls away from your lips. Trails his mouth along your jaw. Tilts your head back with his free hand to give himself better access to your neck. Presses further into you so that he can reach just the right spots there. The ones that make you moan just from the contact. You seek purchase the only place you can: on his body. Digging the tips of your finger into where you hold onto him.
“Chan,” you whine out when he moves down to your collarbone and moves your shirt out of the way.
“Mmmm?” he hums into your skin without stopping.
“This is a terrible idea,” you mumble. Gasp as he reaches for the hem of your shirt.
“Probably,” he agrees, still keeping his lips against your skin. He pulls back to look at you for a moment, pupils dark with desire. His hands are on the hem of your shirt and the question is plain as day in his eyes. “Do you want to stop?”
He’s not asking if you want him to stop. He’s just asking if you want to stop. Because he knows that this is as much on you as on him. Maybe more. You shake your head and move your hands over your head.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you say softly.
Then, he’s pulling your shirt over your head and unfastening your bra. Casts both to the side without a care. And you know that you should move somewhere else, but you’re not sure you can. Not when Chan dips his head to leave sloppy kisses across your collarbones. Not when he kisses down the valley between your boobs. Not when he swirls his tongue around your nipple. Your entire brain goes a little fuzzy. Some things never change. Chan still seems just as obsessed with your chest now as when you dated in law school. And you’re happy to let him give you all of his attention. He can be so singularly focused. In times like this, you certainly don’t mind.
It gets to be too much. You need something more. Makes you pull him back and appreciate the confusion on his face for approximately 2 seconds before you pull his shirt over his head. Not everything about him looks exactly the same. He’s always been someone who took pride in staying in shape. This new, more mature Chan is something different. When he tries to step back and pick up where he left off, you hold him at arm’s length with a hand gently splayed over his chest. Want to just drink him in.
“You can look at me later. I want you now,” he says, voice low and full of desire.
“Should we go further into my apartment, or…?” you start to ask and he shakes his head before you even finish.
“Later,” he says and reaches for your pants. Unbuttons them while he kisses you again. Slower this time. More deliberate. He’s kissing you with purpose. He pulls your pants and panties down in one motion and you step out. Pull his mouth back to yours so that you don’t have to think.
He pulls back again and you pout at him. Doesn’t he know that you don’t want all this in between time? You give him a look that he doesn’t immediately answer, prompting you to ask. “What?”
“Turn around,” he says.
It’s a familiar dynamic between the two of you. A constant push and pull about who gets to be in control. You would give in and then he would and it went on. This feels like falling back into that old pattern. Yet, you agree without questioning it. Just turn around against your front fucking door, like some desperate, horny college student. Feel him slot his body against your back. Feel that he’s hardening. Definitely not hard yet, but you can feel the way he pokes into your ass. Chan brushes your hair over one shoulder and kisses behind your ear. Works down to your pulse point and sucks your skin between his teeth. Thankfully, you don’t have to tell him to be careful. He just is.
And then you see what he’s doing. Get how desperate he is for you. He pushes your legs apart as he continues kissing down your neck. Presses his fingers into your mouth and you suck on them without thinking. Swirl your tongue around his fingers and earn a satisfied hum in response. It vibrates against your skin. Chan winds his hand down your body and between your legs. Presses his spit slick fingers into your entrance.
“Chan, fuck,” you hiss when he presses his first finger in.
“So wet for me, sweetheart,” he whispers into your skin. “Did you miss my fingers?”
“Mmmm, I…” you start, only to moan when he starts pumping into you. Hooks his fingers just the way he remembers you liking it.
“Did you miss this?” he asks, free hand roaming up your body to take one of your boobs into his hand again. Squeezes it a little roughly as he keeps pumping his finger into you.
“You’re a shit,” you manage to hiss out through a moan.
“I’m not sure I heard you,” he says and presses a second finger into you. Alternates between scissoring his fingers inside you and picking up the pace.
“Fuck,” you moan out. He jerks his hips into your ass and you feel that he’s getting harder. You’re not the only one losing yourself here. “God your fingers!”
“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, right into your ear. Moving his lips from your neck just for a moment. You miss the feel of his lips on your skin.
“Oh my god,” you whine and then he does the worst thing imaginable. He pulls his fingers out. You whip your head around to look at him over the shoulder. “What the fuck?”
“Easy, sweetheart, turn around again for me,” he says. Soft and sweet. Totally at odds with the fire burning in his eyes.
You comply even though you don’t want to. You were so close to coming all over his fingers and you don’t want to lose that. The disappointment is short-lived. He drops to his knees in front of you. Right in your hallway. With your back pressing into your front door. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and looks up at you. Presses his tongue flat against your core and you might actually cum just from that. Nobody should be allowed to look that good. That sinful. It’s too much. And that’s before he actually licks into your cunt for the first time.
It’s enough to have you throw your head back against your door. Not too hard, though. Chan doesn’t waste his time. Doesn’t tease you anymore. Just focuses on fucking his tongue into your waiting pussy like he’s been waiting for this chance for years. Uses a finger to tease your clit and hums appreciatively in response to each moan. There’s so little for you to anchor yourself to in this position. Not that you really care. It’s impossible to stay standing, but it would be unimaginably worse to have him stop. Not right now. Not when you’re this close. When Chan brings a finger back up, you’re gone.
“Chan, fuck, no, I’m gonna - fuck!” you shout out as you feel that coil about to snap. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. If anything, he picks up the pace. Does everything that he can to push you over the edge. It doesn’t take long before you’re coming all over his face. He laps it all up. Doesn’t waste any of it. Just works you through your high and pushes you just past.
He’s not completely demonic, though. He does pull back. Gently helps you get your leg off his shoulder and back on the floor. Slowly picks himself up to slot against your body again. Grabs at your hips possessively to pull you into him. Kisses you fiercely and you taste yourself on his tongue. It’s not nearly enough. Not by a long shot. You pull back without creating any space.
“Come on,” you say, finally pushing him a little away from you so that you can step away from the door, “let’s go take this to the bed.”
And it’s easy to fall back into these patterns, too. Easy to grab his hand and pull him into your apartment. Easy to push him back onto your bed after stripping off his remaining clothes. Easy to wrap your fingers around his cock and look at him just the way he likes. Easy to remember just how much he loves your mouth wrapped around him. Easy to bring him just to the edge before pulling off. Easy to see the desire mixed with adoration when you climb on top of him to ride him. Hard and fast. Too needy for anything else.
It’s just so easy to carry on until the early hours of the morning, until you’re both spent, in the dark of your apartment.
Things always feel a little different in the light of day. After a late night, a much later one than anticipated, it’s well into the morning before you wake up. You’re kind of groggy and your body is sore. Tentatively, you start to stretch, only to realize there’s an arm around your stomach. It’s then that you register the feel of a body behind you. Of course Chan is still there. And of course you remember everything from the night before. There’s just a part of you that figured he might have left before you woke up. The steady sounds of his breathing bathe over you. It’s such a familiar sound and it almost feels comforting, just for a moment. At least, until you really stop to think about what all of this might mean.
Gently, you pick up his hand and slide out of your bed. Somehow manage to not wake Chan up. Tiptoe over to the door and slide out of the bedroom. You take a moment to lean back against your closed bedroom door to collect your thoughts. It’s fine. This is all fine. You can definitely figure it all out. Not if you keep standing against the door, though. So, you quietly head into the kitchen. Put on a pot of coffee and retrieve your phone from the living room.
You’re in the midst of scrolling, totally lost in your world, when arms wind around your middle. It startles you for a second before you remind yourself it’s just Chan. He presses a kiss to the side of your face when you turn it slightly. Still makes you feel a little tense. Something he doesn’t seem to pick up on given that he doesn’t move his arms.
“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep.
“Morning,” you repeat. He kisses you again and then untangles himself from you so that he can step around you.
“So, should we dive right in, or…?” he asks.
“At least let me have some coffee first,” you say, only a little exasperation.
“Ah, right. I forgot,” he says and then drops his voice with a smirk. “Doesn’t seem like I forgot much else.”
“I will throw you out,” you threaten.
Chan throws up his hands in surrender, but the look on his face tells you that he’s not sorry. Not really, at least. A moment later, the coffee maker beeps. You reach for a couple of mugs and Chan goes into your refrigerator to get milk and creamer. You pour two mugs and he finishes them off, exactly the way each of you likes. Without another word, you both head into the living room and sit down on the couch. He lets you take a couple of sips before broaching the conversation again.
“So, now that we have coffee,” he starts and you sigh.
“I guess I can’t avoid it,” you agree.
“Avoid it?” he asks, brow furrowing. “Do you regret it?”
“Oh, no, Chan,” you say softly and reach out to him. “No, of course I don’t. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“Complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Chan offers and you search his face. For a moment, he’s just the boy you fell in love with in law school. Open and honest and impossibly easy to read. That makes it a little more frightening, though.
“I think the hardest part for me is that you believe that,” you say carefully. Watch the way his face morphs before returning to something more neutral.
“I mean, why wouldn’t I believe it?” he asks.
You’re not even sure how to answer that. There’s so many reasons. You’re exes. You work together. For the most part, nobody you work with knows Chan is your ex. There are still a lot of unresolved feelings, clearly. You’re technically seeing someone, though not exclusively. It is the easiest direction to go in, though.
“I’m still seeing someone,” you point out and his face falls a little.
“Oh, I just kind of thought…”
“I mean don’t get me wrong. It’s casual. We’re not, like, committed. But, still…”
“Well, if it’s not even serious, then I don’t really see the issue.”
“There are a lot of issues, Chan. We’re just…us. I’m only just getting to know you again.”
“I guess I just kinda figured…” he starts and frowns.
“Figured what?”
“I figured that…I don’t know. I figured when you pulled me in and kissed me last night it might mean that you want the same thing as I do,” he says. Your eyes go a little wide at the admission.
“And what is it that you want?” you ask. Chan gives you a look that you’re not quite used to anymore. One that says you’re a step or two behind and he’s just waiting for you to catch up.
“You,” he says simply and then sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you. It hasn’t worked with anyone else in the last four years because I just can’t get over you. And then this…”
“Chan…”
He shakes his head and stands up. A little sad. Maybe a little defeated. A little resigned. “I’ve said what I need to say. I know you well enough to know that we’re not in the same place. So, I don’t know. I guess figure out where you are and let me know.”
“Chan, please, just give me…” you start and he shakes his head.
“I’m not an idiot. I know we’ve got a lot of things to talk about if we’re going to try again. But, I can’t sit here and act like I don’t love you or last night didn’t mean something different to me. I can’t,” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly.
“Last night meant something to me, too, I’m just…”
“I get it. I’ll see you at work on Monday,” he says and heads off towards your front door without another word. All you can manage to do is sit in the awkward silence that settles around you in his absence. Well, fuck.
You have a lot of things to think about. What to do about Chan. What to do about Parker. That should probably be the first thing that you address, honestly. It’s not serious, but you also don’t want to waste his time. If you can fall back into bed with your ex so easily, then you probably don’t see forever with him. Something you probably already knew, on some level.
It’s all too much and so you do the only thing that any reasonable person can: call your best friend to go out to brunch. At least he can give you so much needed perspective. And from someone whose love life is significantly less messy than yours.
After lunch, and at least partially hearing out your bestie’s advice, you do go ahead and break things off with Parker. Your friend suggests it because, according to him, at least, you’re not over Chan. You decide to go ahead and do it because it seems clear that you and Parker are on different pages. Like the truly great guy that he is, he just accepts it. Appreciates you letting him know and not continuing on if you don’t feel like you’re on the same page. Honestly, he’s the perfect guy for someone, but definitely not for you. All you feel after the conversation is relief. You don’t feel any clearer about Chan, though. Which you point out to your friend, who only seems to think it’s you avoiding it. Whatever.
Your biggest issue is that you’re not sure if Chan is serious. Not sure if you can let your walls down to let him in again. It just all seems kind of sudden to you. After near radio silence for four years, he’s not only back in your life, but at your firm as well. He’s quietly slipping into areas where it’s a little hard to ignore him. Your friend points out that leaving a good job to come to the exact firm you work at doesn’t exactly seem sudden. It doesn’t seem like this is just all on some whim. It also doesn’t seem like it’s driven by you having another relationship, especially given how casual it was. And, sure, it’s scary to take a leap like this. Even scarier when it’s someone you used to know so intimately. Doesn’t that make it kind of worth it, too?
What you don’t admit to your friend, though he can obviously tell, is that you’re scared. Chan is that one person. The one always somewhere in the back of your mind, even when you don’t realize it. Possibly even your one that got away, if you could stop being too stubborn to admit it. In those quiet moments, you also kind of thought of him as your right person at the wrong time. Which is exactly the type of person you should give a second chance to. Things are different now. You’re both older. More established in your careers. Maybe even both able to admit making mistakes.
It’s scary. Giving Chan a chance means risking breaking your heart all over again. And how do you go about picking up the pieces this time?
“Did you and Chan get home okay?” Joshua asks, plopping into his chosen chair across from you in your office on Monday morning. Your brain short circuits for a minute trying to catch up. Does he know what happened? Could he? Thankfully, he mistakes your confusion for being too deep in case prep. “Did you already put the happy hour behind you? I can’t believe you didn’t know you lived in the same building.”
“Oh, yeah,” you say and give a light laugh. Turn back to your computer. “Yeah, it’s crazy. We got home fine, though.”
“Where is he this morning?” he asks and you give him a look.
“How should I know?”
Joshua gives you a kind of knowing look that you definitely do not like. It looks like he’s up to something and you’re not sure you want to know what it is. “You live in the same building. I just figured you’d start carpooling now.”
You roll your eyes, hoping that’s all he’s going for. “You’re annoying.”
“I just like it when my team all gets along.”
“We’re not going to get along if you don’t leave me the fuck alone.”
“Is that any time to talk to your boss?”
“You’re not really my boss.”
“This is a hostile work environment,” he says and stands up, pretending to be serious. He almost pulls it off too.
“This is my office,” you point out.
“Fine, I’ll go bother someone else,” he says and walks towards the door.
“You could also work on your cases,” you call after him.
You know that he’s only like this because it’s a quiet day in the office. The partners are all out, either on vacation or at offsite meetings. It’s that time of year when people try to get little breaks in before things pick up again. It’s also one of your favorite times of year because it’s quieter. Maybe Chan is doing the same thing. Against your better judgment, you click over to the shared calendar and see the first half of his day is blocked off. It makes you panic until you notice that it’s an existing meeting. Something on the schedule from before he even started at the firm.
Then, Joshua sends a text to the team’s group chat (the one without the partners), saying that he hopes Chan feels better soon. It’s clear from the message that they talked privately and that Chan is going to be working from home the rest of the day. Something that Joshua suggests since it is quiet in the office. And, really, there isn’t much that you can’t do at home unless you have in-person client meetings or have to go to court. Everyone sends their well wishes and you include your own so that nothing looks suspicious. Your mind wanders, though. Is he really not feeling well? Or is it because of you? It seems kind of conceited to think that you could have that level of impact on him. Still, you worry. Realize that you care more than you thought.
By the time you leave the office, surprisingly on time, you know what you want to do. At least in part. You swing by a pho place that you love and pick up a couple of bowls to go along with some appetizers. All the things that you remember Chan liking from when you were in school. By the time you make it to his door, you’re questioning if this is really a good idea. Maybe he really doesn’t feel well. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you. Or maybe he’s not even home. Before you can send yourself down another mental spiral, you knock on his door. Almost hope that he’s not home.
Then he opens the door and your heart stutters a little.
He’s not this adorably confused look on his face when he sees you. A mix of disbelief and something else. He’s got his glasses on and his hair is a little messy. Like maybe he might’ve been laying in bed. It should not be doing something to you the way that it is. For all you know, he might really be sick and you’re making it weird. His eyes travel down to the bag in your hand. Finally, he clears his throat.
“What are you doing here?”
You hold up the bag like some kind of peace offering. “I brought pho. Thought you might need something to eat if you’re sick.”
He snorts lightly. Rolls his eyes, yet there isn’t much heat behind it. “I’m not sick. I just didn’t want to come in and see you yet.”
“Oh.”
“Come on in,” he says after a moment. Another sigh. Like he can’t really believe what he’s saying. You have the good sense to look a little sheepish as you slip in behind him. Set the food down for a moment to toe off your shoes and then follow him into the kitchen.
The two of you are quiet as you move around each other to get the food ready. Though he doesn’t say anything about you staying to eat with him, he pulls out utensils and gets you something to drink from the fridge. Warms up your bowl first before doing the same to his own. Helps you set his little table so that the two of you can sit down to eat. Can’t totally help the appreciative look on his face when he opens his bowl and the smell hits him.
“I’m sorry, Chan,” you say when the silence starts to feel like too much.
“That could be about a lot of things,” he says, eyes meeting you hesitantly.
“That’s fair,” you concede. Set down your spoon and give him your full attention. “I’m sorry for Saturday morning. I could have handled that so much differently.”
“I could’ve handled it a lot better, too,” he says after a beat. “Or, you know, not thrown it all on you that way.”
“Did you mean it?” you ask, pushing around the remaining contents of your meal to avoid looking up at him. He pauses long enough that you look up. And it’s just…Chan. Soft smile that makes you want to smile back. Gentle eyes. Open face. The person you remember loving more than anything in the world.
“That it’s always going to be you?” he asks and you nod. “Yes, I did.”
“I’m not sure what to do with that,” you admit.
“Why don’t you just start with how it made you feel?”
“Scared?” you venture and sigh. “Nervous. A little tense. Excited. Homesick.”
That makes him laugh. “Homesick?”
You chew on your bottom lip for a moment. “You always felt like home. And then you said that and it was just…I don’t know. I missed the feeling of you being my home.”
“I’ve missed it too. Every day for the last four years.”
“Chan,” you say and laugh affectionately. “I know you have not been just pining after me for years.”
“And if I have?”
“That might be scarier.”
“Why?”
It takes you a minute to formulate your reasoning. “What if it doesn’t work? What if we’re just risking ending up in the same place again? What if I can’t live up to the version in your head? And now we work together…”
There it is again. Chan. Your Chan. The way he looks at you makes you think you could fly if you tried. “What if it does work? Are you really going to tell me you’re too scared to take the chance and get everything we’ve ever wanted? Where’s the girl I fell in love with in law school? She wasn’t afraid of anything.”
“Of course I was,” you disagree, smiling so fondly.
“It’s okay. I’ll hold your hand if you get scared this time,” he says. Confident. Sure. ready to take the leap yet again.
And it’s not the same. Not really. You’ve both had four years to think about everything that happened then and everything that might happen now. To figure out what you want and what you don’t. To figure out how to have the hardest conversations. To take risks because you’re not students anymore. To take a second chance. How often in life do people really get those? Do you really want to turn it down because you’re scared? Do you really want to wonder?
“I just…” you start and he shakes his head. Rises out of his seat and holds his hand out to you.
“Let’s just try something. Without the happy hour or anything else,” he says and you give him a look. But, you want to trust him too. You nod.
Chan closes the remaining space between you. Runs a finger along your forehead to brush a hair off your face. Meets your eyes and there’s this look of intense vulnerability there. Like he means that he can be brave enough for both of you. At least for now. And then he pulls you into him and kisses you. Sweet. Soft. Searching. The kind of kiss that two friends might share if they’re trying to see if there are deeper feelings there. Or maybe it’s the kind of kiss that tests where each of you is now.
Whatever the case, you feel it. Almost instantly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull yourself tighter against him. Deepen the kiss and take the lead. Let your tongue tangle with his. Grasp at him to erase any space. He hums into your mouth as he holds you close. You break the kiss long enough to guide the two of you back to his couch. Urge him to sit down and immediately straddle his lap. Chan looks a little smug as you settle and he grabs your hips. A little like he’s getting exactly what he wants. You might be too, though. You lean in to kiss him again and he meets you hungrily. Not just letting you set the pace, but actively chasing it with you. Chan’s hands grip your hips tightly as you roll against him. Feel the way he groans at the friction.
Honestly, you kind of want to fuck him right here on the couch and don’t even know if you can wait. Would too, if not for the doorbell suddenly ringing through the apartment. You give him a look and find he’s just as confused as you are. Clearly not expecting anyone.
“Will you…” he starts as you shift to get off him.
“Are you expecting anyone?” you ask and he shakes his head.
“Just give me a minute. I’m going to go into the bathroom,” he says.
It’s your turn to nod. You try and smooth down your clothes. Take a couple breaths. As soon as you see him get to the bathroom, you move towards his front door. Mentally prepare to make some excuse to whoever it is. Nothing prepares you for the person on the other side.
“Oh, hi.”
Your brain immediately short circuits because what the actual fuck is Joshua doing on the other side of the door looking at you like that. Suddenly, you’re wishing that you had checked your appearance in a mirror before answering.
“Joshua.”
“I was coming by to see Chan,” he says and looks at the door. “I’m pretty sure this is his apartment and not yours.”
“No, yeah, it is. I just stopped by to bring him some food since he was sick,” you say and Joshua looks entirely unconvinced.
“Right,” he says, drawing out the word.
“He’s just in the bathroom if you want…”
“I was just bringing by some case files that weren’t scanned yet in case he wanted to work from home again tomorrow,” Joshua says and holds out the folders.
“Did you want to come in?”
“No, why don’t you just give them to him?” Joshua asks. That smug smile makes you want to burrow into the floor and die.
“Look, Joshua,” you start and take a deep breath. “It’s just…well, I said some things after happy hour that I shouldn’t have and I just wanted…”
Joshua holds up a hand. “You don’t owe me an explanation for why you’re here. There’s no rule against hanging out.”
“Right, but…”
“You might owe me an explanation for why you didn’t tell me that you were, you know…”
“Coming over?”
The look he gives you says that he knows a lot more than you realize. Thankfully, a moment later he puts you out of your misery. “That you were the ex he couldn’t get over.”
Your jaw drops open. You’re usually so much better at maintaining composure. Then again, that’s not really true when you’re close to someone, is it?
“I don’t…”
He waves you off. “There’s been a million signs for someone that knows you as well as I do. Be careful and for once in your life, don’t worry about the damn rules.”
“Thanks, Joshua,” you say earnestly. He gives you his real smile. That one that’s soft and kind and reserved for people he also cares about.
“Work from home tomorrow. I’ll see you Wednesday,” he says and turns to leave before you can respond. After a moment, you walk back in to find Chan peeking out from the bathroom.
“Who was it?” he asks and steps towards you.
“Well, I guess that cat’s out of the bag,” you say with an uneasy chuckle.
“What do you…?”
You hold up the files that Joshua brought by. “That was Joshua dropping these off in case you wanted to work from home again tomorrow.”
“Oh, shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you…upset that he knows?”
You study Chan’s face for a moment. Realize that he is just letting you set the expectations. Set the tone and the speed and everything else. “No.”
“So?”
“If you can forgive me for not responding in the best way the other morning, then I guess we try again?”
The smile that breaks across his face nearly takes your breath away. So soft. Genuine. Full of affection. Like he’s in his first year of law school again. All bright eyed and full of optimism. A second later, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his body. Peppers kisses all over your face, making you laugh in a way you haven’t in years.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back. You frown at him. “You did break it off with that guy, right?”
Of all the things to ask right then, you cannot believe this is what he asks. It pulls another genuine laugh out of you. Makes you swat at his arm. “Yes, you idiot.”
“When?”
“What?”
“When did you do it?”
For some reason, the question makes you hesitate. Do you admit how deep in this you already are? “Saturday.”
That pulls him up short. “Then why…?”
“I was scared, Chan. And I didn’t want to break off whatever it was with him just because of you. If I’m being honest, it’s been a while coming,” you say and sheepishly look away. Take a breath and meet his eyes again. Time to be brave. “I knew it was wrong after that date I went on. The one that I missed happy hour for?”
“So I wasn’t crazy,” he says triumphantly.
“I mean, you are, but not for that reason,” you say and earn your own swat. “I don’t know, I was just on the date and something wasn’t clicking. It wasn’t…”
“Wasn’t so perfect?” Chan asks, a little smug.
“No, he really is perfect. On paper, at least. But, he’s not you. And you’re all my heart seems to want now that you’re back in my life,” you admit. Brave. Keep being brave.
“You could have had me way earlier,” he says. The barest pout makes an appearance.
You shake your head. “I’m not sure it would’ve worked then. I needed to grow. To realize what I wanted and what I didn’t. I think we both needed it.”
“Maybe,” he concedes and then looks over at you again. “Can I go back to kissing you?”
“Oh my god,” you exclaim. It’s so like him to break up a heavier moment with something light. Still, you do want to kiss him.
It’s nothing like a few nights prior. No frenzy, no desperation. The kiss starts straight off being deep and intense. The kind of kiss that makes you wonder why you ever bothered dating anyone else in the world. The kind that claims you, body and soul. The kind that seals promises into your lips. The kind where you could agree to absolutely anything and know it still would be okay.
Maybe it had to fall apart before so that it could work now. Maybe it’s not so scary to try and figure it all out.
٠࣪⭑ pairing: stagehand! jeonghan x ghost! fem reader
٠࣪⭑ summary: Jeonghan lives in the inbetween. Your warmth— so present and tangible— is there for a moment and gone the next. You died, is what he has to remind himself. You died, but not really. Fleeting visits from a shadow of you, a ghost, has him wondering if he’s lost his mind. The quietest part of him wonders if he even wants to find it all.
٠࣪⭑genre: carnival ghost au. horror (though maybe not in the way you think). angst. smut. established relationship.
٠࣪⭑rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i’ll block you.
٠࣪⭑warnings: cursing. reader is a ghost. drinking to cope. smoking. feelings of insanity. main character death. non-graphic. brief talk of s*icide. depression. falling. happy ending? at least not the worst ending. you and jeonghan really love each other. no use of y/n but a few pet names- angel/baby/darling/my love.
٠࣪⭑smut warnings: unprotected sex. the era this takes place in is deliberately ambiguous, condoms don't exist, sorry. fingering. fingers in mouths.
if you think i’ve forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post!
٠࣪⭑ wc: 8.1k. complete
٠࣪⭑ a/n: hey so this got really heavy lmao. not as long as other things i've written but sure as shit the hardest. back to being funny for the next one. thank you to @joshujin for the banner. you worked so hard and i love it! thank you to @starlightkyeom who beta-d this for me at (my) 4am so i could post this morning! you're a star and ily. thank you to everyone in the collab server who chatted with me about this fic and also sorry for hurting your feelings.
٠࣪⭑written for: the Midnight Menagerie collab hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you to @gyuswhore for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. These stages are a cycle of emotional responses to the loss of a loved one, a framework for the behaviours and complex feelings you may experience while learning how to cope with your loss. It is important to remember that grief is not linear and that it is different for everyone– you may experience these stages out of order, at the same time, repeatedly, and some you may not ever reach.
You may find it helpful to seek out a support system. Consider reaching out to your friends and family, a therapist or a grief counsellor, your doctor, or a religious leader. The aim is to stop the stages of grief from affecting your physical health and emotional well-being. Information on services available in your local area–
Jeonghan clicks off the tape. It’s nearing two AM, and he doesn’t feel the press of it in his shirt pocket anymore, no prongs bringing him comfort by pinching into his skin, and sure enough– when he digs around to check– it’s gone. He takes one last drag of his cigarette, then stubs it out. Opens the window by the bed to let out the stale air of the carriage. Chucks the ash out onto the grass, and tucks the ashtray away in a chest under the bed, alongside several recently emptied bottles of liquor.
He cleans the carriage quickly. He’s well practiced now, in getting it exactly as it should be for your return. You don’t deserve to come back just to see him in his usual sorry state. You deserve Jeonghan’s best. So he sweeps, and washes the pile of dishes, and changes the sheets. Lights a scented candle to make sure you can’t smell the cigarettes. He laughs, a little melancholy, because even in death you don’t let him wallow. In the sink he washes up, makes sure his hair is brushed and his teeth are clean, and hopes the bags under his eyes won’t look so bad in the morning light. In a few short hours you’ll be here, and God– God, he hopes sleep will come quickly tonight, to bring you close to him once again.
1. Bargaining
Tonight it could be different. Jeonghan always does something different. And maybe it’s some desperate, pathetic attempt to change the course of this godforsaken groundhog day, but that doesn’t stop him trying. There’s that saying, isn’t there, something about butterfly wings causing a hurricane on the other side of the world. He’s wondered if it’s like that, some tiny, insignificant detail he needs to get right, so at the end of the day you can be freed from this nightmare. Him, too. He’s wondered if there’s some specific order to it all, a puzzle to be solved. Tonight could be it. He could have performed exactly as he was meant to, in exactly the right order, said all the right things, and perhaps he could wake with you next to him again, tomorrow morning.
You’ve been so alive this time. Hears it in the lightness of your laugh, feels it in the way your warm hand cups his cheek, sees it in the sparkle in your eyes when you look at your ring and then to him. To you, it’s brand new. To him, it’s something he’s carried for what feels like forever, even though in truth it’s only been a few months.
After lunch you’d marveled over your ring. How he’d got it just perfect. You talk about the future– ask Jeonghan what he wants your wedding to be like (anything you want, baby) and if he wants to get married in summer or autumn (autumn. Me too!) and if he’s happy (of course baby). How could he not be happy with you here?
It’s almost time. Jeonghan has refused to look at the clock all day. Instead he has watched you– tallied the steady beats of your heart as he held you, tracked your measured breaths while you flicked through magazines curled into the armchair tucked in the corner of the carriage, kissed the tips of your fingers, one by one, as he made love to you in the amber light of the afternoon. Now, you loosen your body in the same way you always have, and he watches, counting your stretches. Jeonghan loves the way you move. All elegance and grace and measured precision. He’s not clock watching, but he’s been counting anyway.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” you murmur, moving over to climb into his lap.
He hums against your shoulder. “Worship’s a kind of work.”
His thumb traces the curve of your jaw, and you angle your head away, laughing that he’ll mess up your make up, so he opts for your waist instead, holding you tight as if to anchor you there. Presses kisses to your sternum instead. There isn’t much he can say anymore– only knows if it’ll be different in a few minutes time, but he’s hoping. God, he’s hoping.
You’re pulling yourself up from his lap but Jeonghan tugs you back, peppers his lips up your chest and over your neck and you’re giggling and he’s holding on to hope so fucking hard that he fears he’s breaking it. Trails frantic lips over your jaw, behind your ear, down your neck, but you’re tearing away and he’s saying please, baby. Please stay with me so desperately. Of course you don’t understand.
You chastise him gently for his neediness. Almost time for the show, my love. Press loving lips against his hairline and he can’t stop the tears that prick at the corners of his eyes. Blinks them away before you can see. It’s a recurring torture, the way you leave him.
“Angel,” he pleads into your shoulder. “Five more minutes.”
You sigh, smiling soft. “Five minutes.”
You settle back into his lap, knees bracketing his hips. The shift draws a soft sound from him, half sigh, half something more fragile– the contact itself almost too much to bear. His hands slide up your stockinged legs until he finds the top of your thighs, bare beneath your skirt, warms the flesh with his hands.
Neither of you speak. The warm lamplight flickers behind him, painting gold across your face. Your breath skitters across his ear as he works his mouth over your collarbone, drags his thumb across the hem of your underwear.
“Be quick, Hannie.”
He presses his forehead to your chest, and breathes in your scent, slow and desperate. He whimpers as you roll your hips against him, and you suck air through your teeth at the drag of your core against his clothed, hard length. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs.
Your fingers slide through his hair, down to the nape of his neck. “You’re shaking,” you whisper. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes meet yours– wet, and wrecked with feeling.
“Stay,” he breathes, voice cracking on the word. It’s not command, it’s a plea.
You cradle his face in both hands. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. A promise you don’t know you’ll break. You gasp when he tugs your underwear to the side, slips his fingers over your clit. Moves in slow, agonising circles. Loves the way you keen for him, loves looking for the adoration in your eyes, giving way to hunger. Loves the sounds you make when you’re needy, strung out gasps, all high and breathy, panted in his ear. Loves the way you clutch at his shoulders, digging crescent moons into his skin, when he slips his fingers inside your tight, wet heat. You feel so alive, tonight.
Jeonghan crooks his fingers just so, pulls a noise so obscene from you it makes him impossibly hard, needs to bury himself inside you before it’s too late but he wants you like this, first. God, he misses when you felt permanent, when you had all the time in the world. Drags his wet fingers out just to toy with your clit again, over and over and over until you’re gasping, stringing out his name in a whine. “Close, Jeonghan. So close.”
“Yeah?” he grunts. Feels his neglected, aching cock leaking into his underwear at the sight of your thighs trembling over his, but he swallows his desire down. “Gonna come for me, angel?”
You pull at his trousers. “Want you in me,” you sob. “Please, please– I–”
He coos in your ear. “So needy, baby.” Slips his fingers back inside just to pull gasps from you, lets loose one of his own as you palm at his crotch.
“Who’s needy now?”
You have your way, as you always do. Jeonghan would never begrudge you what you want, and tonight that’s tugging his cock free, guiding him into your body, wrapping your arms around each other, and rocking him into this fervoured state. It drives him half-mad, your walls around him, the way you won’t let him kiss you lest he ruin your make-up, the way you moan as he grabs at your ass to drag you harder against him, to fuck you deeper. Makes him insane, the way he trails his wet mouth down your chest, and you pull your breasts free for him to drag his teeth over them, leave little nips over the skin, leave one nipple spit-slick and puckered while you play with the other.
Jeonghan used to think of hauntings and ghosts as unwanted visitors. As faceless things that bring nothing but trauma. This is something else. This is you, feeling completely whole and not at the same time. This is you, the love of his life, saying you love him too. At the end of it all he’s thrown to the wayside, only thinking of you and the unexpected way you haunt him.
Your cunt clenches him impossibly tight when he fucks up into you. Feels his end hurtling close as your grinds turn hurried and clumsy. Feels his cock get insanely wet, slick with you, as you pant his name something desperate. Coming, baby– fuck fuck fuck, feels sooo– fuck. Heat coils in his belly, brows pinching as he tries to hold on long enough to drag out your orgasm, but he’s spilling into you regardless, whimpering your name on a curse. Your smile is saccharine sweet, even when you drag your fingers over where you join, through his sticky release and the mess he’s made of you– sweeter still when you bring your fingers to his mouth for him to taste. “Taste us, baby,” you command. Jeonghan drags his tongue over them, he won’t ever refuse you.
When he kisses you, it’s slow. Not the kind of kiss that demands, but the kind that begs– a prayer wrapped in tenderness, all the things he can’t say without breaking.
“Please,” he begs against your skin, his voice shaking. “Don’t go.”
You rest your forehead to his. “I’m never leaving you, Hannie,” you say.
“I love you, angel,” he whispers, lips featherlight on your collarbone.
“Love you too, Hannie,” you whisper back, toying with the hair at the nape of his neck. You pull back, letting him slip from your body with a disgruntled sound, and you admonish him the second you catch sight of your face in the mirror– your smeared make up.
He sighs, swallows the ache in his chest. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes slide over to him in the mirror, and you soften. “It’s okay, my love. Don’t pout.”
He’s not sorry in the way you take it. Making a mess of you, maybe. Holding you up, not at all. He’d keep you late forever, if he could. To kiss you anytime, anywhere, anyplace. He’s sorry for pretending to be happy when he’s breaking. He’s sorry for missing you in all the mornings that follow.
Beyond the curtain, there’s the sound of the crowd, humming like a living thing. Jeonghan can feel it, even from here– the entire tent vibrating with energy. You rush over to peak through the gap, eager as always to be adored. Jeonghan wishes his adoration was enough. You adjust your stockings one last time, fluff up the lace of your underskirt, fix your hair. And then, with a kiss to his cheek, you’re gone.
Jeonghan slips out to watch you climb. He was never bothered before, but lately heights have been making him sick. Can feel the burn of the bile rising in his throat but he can’t look away, because he knows you’ll search for him when you reach the top.
You climb the ladder, the sequins of your corset catching the spotlight, a thousand tiny glimmers dance over the draping darkness of the tent. You glance over to him once you reach the platform, the same way you always do, a little tilt of your chin and that beautiful smile of yours that feels like salvation and ruin all at once.
He forces himself to smile back. Forces his lungs to work through what’s to come, forces his fingers to unclench where they’ve knotted themselves in the thick fabric of the curtain.
You blow him a kiss.
He catches it, the same ritual for every night he’s ever known you, presses it to his lips. It’s a soft superstition, feels a little something like a prayer now.
The music starts. Something grand, something you’d picked on that fateful night offhand, because you said it made you feel like flying. Jeonghan never cared to know the name of this funeral march. Much less now.
You step out, and Jeonghan lights his cigarette, the way he always does, thumb trembling against the flint. The first drag burns, as always. He wonders if it’s the tightness in his body that makes it feel so much worse than all the other cigarettes he’s smoked since you’ve been gone.
God, you’re beautiful. The way you almost skate across the wire is something to behold. It’s like a dance, in its exquisite precision, the way your leg arches backwards over your head, and the way you turn yourself over in slow motion with your hands. The tent is filled with the sound of applause, and you shine in it. Halfway across the wire, the crowd goes silent with bated breath. At least, to Jeonghaon, that’s how it feels. Like he’s sinking underwater, his body both weightless and immobile from the pressure. He closes his eyes. He begs.
Please. Please please please–
Jeonghan knows nothing has changed with the way the air goes still.
The first gasp is yours. The first scream was his, but now belongs to a woman, a stranger, somewhere far removed in the crowd. He always thinks it’s strange, the way these unfamiliar, faceless people cry out for you, like they know you, like they’re someone your death affects. Like they know what it’s like to have been loved by you, and haunted by your last hours.
And then the audience panics, like a wave breaking– the tent fills with shouts, the clamour of people running, the crying of small children and the attempted hush from their mothers– there’s chaos filling the hollow where your presence used to be.
Jeonghan moves back behind the curtain. He knows what it looks like by now– the wire is empty, the gold speckled dust floating beneath the stage lights. The floor below is clean, untouched. He sits at your vanity, cigarette dangling from his lips as he tidies away your make up, and he just listens until the noise dies down, until the dust settles and there’s more gasps as they realise there’s no body splayed on the ground as there was that first time you left him, assuming it’s simply part of the act. And then comes the applause, the cheering– wild and relieved and so fucking cruel.
He smokes the rest of the cigarette down to the butt, the paper burning his fingers, before dowsing it in your half-empty glass of water. Jeonghan knows better than to go looking for you now. You’re gone until next time. He doesn’t know if it’ll be tomorrow, or the next city, or the one after that, or weeks from now. There’s no rhyme or reason to the way you visit him, but he hopes it won’t be long. He hopes you keep coming until he can figure out how to make you stay.
Jeonghan waits long after the crowd has filed out, long after the laughter fades, until only the sound of the wind whipping the tent remains– until it feels like the whole world has folded in on itself and left him behind. He stands in the centre of the tent, finds your ring among the dust and rubs it clean with the hem of his shirt and, once satisfied, tucks it back in his pocket. At least the ring is a promise you were really there, that this isn’t a figment of his imagination.
By the time he returns to the carriage, the candle has burned low, the sheets are still smooth from when you made it earlier. He doesn’t bother with all that when you’re not here. Doesn’t really see the point. He kneels at the edge of the bed, reminiscent of the way he had you earlier, this time pulling the chest under it where he keeps the whiskey. Jeonghan likes the kind that burns.
Outside, the lights are being put out, leaving the sky an inky black. There’s the low hum of chatter from the few staff that stay up later than the rest. Jeonghan can’t sleep, but he can’t talk either, so he sits in front of the dying fire, nursing his fast-emptying bottle and rolling out the crick in his neck.
And Jeonghan doesn’t know it, but you’re still here somewhere in the space between the living and the dead, watching him as you wait to wake again. You’ve tried crying out for him before, touching him, writing messages in the fogged glass. Nothing works.
All you can do is watch as he sinks, tears fogging your vision as he loses the light in his eyes. He doesn’t know how you hold him as he sleeps, how you watch the hair fall from his beautiful face when he turns restless, and you tsk over the dark circles you find under his eyes. He can’t see you, can’t hear you, can’t feel you. The only times he can are when you make it back to him, but what good is that when you can’t remember what you’re going back for?
2. Anger
Mood swings are a natural part of grief, especially outbursts of anger. They’re an indication of how deeply you loved, how much you’ve lost. You may ask yourself: why is this happening? You may place blame on other people, on circumstances, on yourself, or the very person you lost. This is normal. Allow the anger to surface, but then direct it to something healthy. Move your body. Breathe deeply. Seek safe release in order to–
Jeonghan clicks the tape off, and the carriage falls silent save for the pounding of blood in his ears. He doesn’t want ‘safe release’. He doesn’t need fucking answers. He wants you. He wants your life together, exactly as you imagined it would be. He wants to know what perfume you’d have worn on your wedding day. That honeymoon you’d have taken, on a boat down a lazy river in warmer places. He wants to know what your children would’ve looked like, and if you’d have ever gotten around to finishing that jumper you started knitting months before, the one with the moons and stars.
Everything seems to be in his way tonight. He stumbles across the room, knocks into the corner of the bed, stubs his toe on the ottoman, knocks over a bottle of oil he’d used to fix the squeak in your chair earlier. And in his haste to mop up the spill, he knocks your favourite mug off the counter, the one you’d painted with constellations (yours and his), and it cracks on the floor before he can register what’s happening. He watches the fragments scatter. There is his anger. It bursts out of him in a yell, all jagged and sharp edged. Simmering in his gut in your presence, but erupts out of him when you’re gone.
He’ll never have it. What he has is the hollow in his chest, the wretched twist in the pit of his stomach, the heat of his blood in his veins. Where’s yours? Where are you but turned to ash, kept in the confines of a jar, in your favourite shade of blue? You don’t deserve that. You deserve to be in your favourite places, all those ones you’d told him about but he never got to see. He can’t even go without you, because what if you’re tied to this place? What if he leaves and you come back just to find him gone? What if he can’t ever get you back?
His sob is choked back as he’s reminded once again that he’s not only been robbed of a future with you, but of one without you too. He is stuck in this awful, static, existence. Of living and not. Jeonghan is dying slow, hardly breathing in this haunted place.
Loving you is a constant, but sometimes he hates you. Today he hates you. Been weeks since he last held your body against his and the sun is already on her way up, a cool blue washing over the dark sky– another day confirmed he’ll spend alone. He checks his pocket again, just in case, but it’s still there, taunting him.
He sweeps the floor mechanically. Changes the sheets and stuffs the bottles in the chest under the bed. You’re not coming, he knows that, but maybe tomorrow? He can’t sleep like this anyway because the worst of it all is the waiting. So he picks up the mirror and brushes out the knots in his hair until it falls into place, washes his face, but the dark circles under his eyes still betray the mess within. Sometimes you comment on it, his sallow skin, his cracked lips, ask if he’s feeling alright (no) and if he might be coming down with something. He feigns a headache, a cold– whatever. It’s not so far off the truth.
When the morning light comes, relentless in its mockery, he will wake and you won’t be there– smiling, alive, and radiant. He’ll drink the morning away until it’s time to set up. And once the crowds of people he so resents disappears, he’ll come back here and wait for you again until the early hours. When you’re here he can pretend it’s all okay. Sometimes he doesn’t even have to pretend he’s happy because you’re there. Right now, he’s alone. And alone, his anger coils. But he’d rather have this half-formed life than nothing at all.
It’s days later when you finally show.
He wakes to the sound of rain on the tin roof, the kind that blurs the edges of the world. For once he fell asleep early– all those nights spent waiting finally caught up, that tightness in his body wound so taut it’ll surely snap. He’s resigned to another day, until he feels some weight against him. Until he rolls over and finds you there, curled onto your side, breathing evenly.
Your face turned into your pillow, your hand rests palm-up in front of him, like you’re waiting for him to take it. Jeonghan doesn’t move. He stares, memorises the contours of your face. God, he wishes he could capture the way you look when you sleep so he’d at least have something to hold on to when you’re not here. Feels something claw up from the pit of his stomach– relief maybe? But it twists so fast it barely registers– burns into anger so raw it punches the air right out his lungs.
His traitorous hands tremble as they reach for you, fingers ghosting over your arm, your shoulder, your neck. You’re warm. Soft. You’re finally here and it’s almost too much for him to bear.
His lips finds your temple before he can think. Peppers frantic, chaste kisses down your face, into your hair and you stir with a quiet sound, half-awake, murmuring his name in a soft, questioning tone. He rolls you onto your back, trying to swallow the ache whole, and leans in to capture your lips in a kiss so desperate it hurts. Your lips part for him without hesitation, something like instinct by now, and he kisses you harder. Kisses you angry and needy, the kind of kiss that tastes like metal and all the things he wouldn’t know how to put into words, even if he could.
You gasp when he shifts over you, drawing your legs up and over his hips. He’s shaking when his hands find the curves of your waist, grips your hips and hold them in place. It’s not desire, not exactly, but you can’t tell the difference yet.
“Jeonghan,” you whisper, breathless, eyes fluttering open. “What’s gotten into you?”
He doesn’t answer. He mouths at your throat, your jaw, desperate, clumsy, and you laugh a little, soft and sleepy, thinking it’s love. Thinking he missed you. Which he did but it’s more than that. How can he tell you he’s livid when, to you, it’s the night after he asked you to marry him? How can he tell you he can’t bear the way you leave him for weeks, when in your mind, you’ve never been gone? How can he tell you that you’re torturing him, the way your presence brings him the slightest glimmer of hope only to dash it away every time you fall? It’s sick. He’s sick.
It’s only when he drags his mouth back to yours, rough and uncoordinated, that you taste the tears.
You touch his cheek. “Hannie,” you murmur. “What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head, too quickly, like the question itself burns. “Nothing,” he snaps. He kisses you again. It’s messy now, all hot breath and trembling hands sliding up your middle. You push at his chest gently, confused.
“Why are you sad?” you whisper.
He laughs then, a broken sound that cracks at the edges. He can’t tell you that he’s so far past sadness. Can’t say he’s angry because you left him again, because you keep leaving, because he’s the only one who remembers the way you die. He can’t tell you he’s angry at the world, at himself, at this loop he can’t escape. So he shakes his head again, presses his face to your stomach instead, tears streaking your nightdress.
The sobs start with one, choked and tiny. Another, that rasps his throat and stings his eyes. Another that wracks through him, and then he can’t stop. He’s gasping against your skin, shaking with the pain of it.
You freeze. You’re confused, he knows that, and it just makes it all so much worse. You thread your fingers through his hair and whisper his name, soft and soothing. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. I’m here. You’re okay.”
He nods into your stomach, but his grip on your waist tightens, desperate, like he’s trying to keep you from fading right out of his arms.
“Are you–” you start, hesitating. “Are you having second thoughts–”
He shakes his head immediately, chokes out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “No,” he insists, voice hoarse, scrambling for an explanation. “No, never. Just– just a dream. A nightmare. I couldn’t wake up.”
You smooth your hand over his hair again, thumb tracing the shell of his ear, the curve of his cheek. You hush him quietly. “It’s okay, darling. I’m with you.”
And he cries harder, because that’s the cruelest part– that you believe it. That you think this is real, that you think you’re real.
Eventually the sobs fade to little tremors, his breath evening out against your body. You stroke the hair from his eyes, and he glances up to see you already watching him, frowning faintly, confused by the heaviness in his body, the exhaustion in his expression. You’ve never seen him like this before, and it’s all his fault. He shouldn’t have let this get the better of him, because you don’t know what haunts him, or why he looks at you sometimes like he’s counting the seconds.
But you hold him until he stills, whispering his name into the half-light, and when you finally drift off again, Jeonghan closes his eyes too, thankful you don’t see the tears still clinging to his lashes. Tonight you’ll leave him again, for an untold time.
Outside, the rain keeps falling.
3. Denial
His coworkers, once friends, don’t want to be around him, lately. He overheard a few of them talking to the ringmaster a week before, after your last visit. We hear him talking, they’d said. Always about her, or to her. He sounds half mad. At first he thought they’d been concerned for his wellbeing, but given they won’t acknowledge him as they pitch tents and set up the stages, but he watches the way they avoid his eye, the way they shiver as he enters a tent, and he realises they’re so cautious around him, and guarded.
Jeonghan figured if he must have been talking to himself, he had been drinking a little too much lately, but now wonders if they can’t see you when you’re here. It fucks with him a little. A lot. If they don’t know you’re here, do the crowd see you when you perform? What are they seeing that he can’t?
He knows you’re here, of course, because the sheets are still warm from where your ghost laid. You’re out there now, foraging blackberries to have with breakfast. You’ll come back with juice stained lips and he’ll kiss it away. He loves the way you could never wait. There’s your cup of coffee cooling beside the sink, abandoned in your haste to rush out the door. Can’t they see you? When you greet your old friends, do they reply? Do you even notice?
He laughs, quiet, and frustrated, like he’s kept out of a secret. The kind of laugh people let out for jokes they don’t understand.
“Maybe I’m crazy,” he says to no one. “Maybe you’re not even here. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t–” He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale. In truth he doesn’t know a thing. “Stop it,” he mutters under his breath. Then louder. “Stop it!” The sound ricochets through the carriage, echoes back at him in your voice, soft and surprised.
He freezes.
“Jeonghan?” you whisper, turns to find you there, black fruit piled in the sag of your apron, that you hold up in a makeshift basket, berry stained lips pursed in worry. “Stop what?”
He sinks to the bed, presses his palms to his eyes until the colours bloom behind them. “Is it you?” he says, voice high and thin.
You laugh, confused. “Who else would it be?”
It’s you. You you you you.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
In the morning light, the circus is a strange, sleeping thing. The fabric of the tents flutters in the wind. Train carriages whisper with the low breaths of their slumbering occupants. The Ferris wheel creaks the same as it does while in motion. Jeonghan drifts through the gaps in canvas and guideropes until he find Jun– the medium– sitting cross-legged by the fire on a blanket outside his tent, cards spread out before him, a map of someone’s fate. The wind whips at his hair, and his eyes flick up, like he feels Jeonghan’s presence.
“Good morning,” he says.
Jun sighs. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Jeonghan frowns. “I don’t know what to do,” he whispers. “I think I’m losing it–”
Jun’s gaze drops back to his cards. “This is just part of the process.”
“The process of what? Grieving? Don’t you think it’s been too long?”
“There’s no timeline for this, Jeonghan,” Jun murmurs. The fire pops. Jun gathers the cards one by one, his movements slow and deliberate. “You’re ready when you’re ready. It can’t be rushed.”
“You said that before,” Jeonghan presses, desperation seeping out of his skin. “You said that the last time. I can’t– Jun, I can’t keep doing this. I see her everywhere, even when she’s not here. I hear her when I sleep. This is killing me.”
“You have to let it,” Jun says firmly. “It’s part of it.”
“Can I talk to her?” His heart sinks as Jun shakes his head.
“Doesn’t work like that, my friend,” he says sadly. “She has to come to you.”
“Then can you get a message to her?”
Jun looks up at him again, eyes full of pity and something else Jeonghan can’t put his finger on. “And tell her what, Jeonghan? That she’s making you miserable? That you can’t move on? Do you think she’d understand that you’re stuck?”
Jeonghan’s protests die on his lips. He watches as Jun stands, tosses a handful of powder into the flames, and the fire flares a strange grey before settling into it’s comforting crackle of orange again. “What does that mean?”
There’s a beat of silences before Jun says, “You need to stop clinging on.”
“To what? To her?” His mind whirrs.
“To this narrative,” Jun says. “You’ll never move on if you can’t look past it.”
Jeonghan doesn’t understand. He never does. Jun’s cryptic fucking bullshit time and time again doesn’t help like he’d hoped. When he looks down, his hands are shaking. He doesn’t feel the cold deep like he used to, not truly, but he still feels the bite of it, an endless ache. He turns back toward the path to his carriage, feels Jun’s eyes on his back as he goes.
Later, he sits curled into your chair, the tape crackles.
The mind will often protect itself from unbearable pain by refusing to accept the loss. This is denial. You may find yourself believing your loved one is still alive, hearing their voice in the next room, or sensing their presence in familiar places. This stage is not delusion– it is the heart’s attempt to shield itself while the mind adjusts to a new reality. Remember: it takes time to let go of what we cannot bear to lose.
Jeonghan doesn’t click it off this time. He leans forward, elbows pressed into his knees, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The voice on the tape drones on– purposefully too soft, almost clinical, like it’s trying to hypnotise him into sanity– but it only makes the world feel thinner.
4. Depression
Depression may feel like emptiness, like exhaustion that no amount of rest can fix. You may feel isolated, detached, or unable to find meaning in the things that once brought you joy. It’s important to know that these feelings are natural– though they may seem endless, they are part of the process of healing. Take each day one step at a time. Try to eat regular meals, sleep when you can, and let others care for you until you can care for yourself again.
The tape sputters, then clicks off on its own. Jeonghan doesn’t bother rewinding it anymore. The tape player has started doing things like that– stopping, rewinding, whirring quietly when he’s nowhere near it. Faulty wiring. A loose connection. If he could bring himself to care, he’d fix it, but everything seems to be coming loose these days.
It’s been an age since he last saw you. The trees are falling bare, and there’s an almost permanent layer of frost on the ground. Jeonghan used to wonder why you’d never seem to notice the change in seasons, now he’s figured your reality must differ from his.
The bed has taken the shape of him. The dent in the mattress dips deep enough that sometimes he wakes and feels like he’s sinking. He used to pull the sheets tight each morning, smoothing the creases, a game of pretend that orderliness might save him. Now he just lies there, tracing patterns into your pillow, where he would’ve traced them into your skin.
He hasn’t properly eaten in days, or maybe weeks. It’s hard to tell time now he’s stopped bothering to open the curtains. Sometimes he thinks the circus has stopped travelling altogether. He never hears the engines anymore. Never feels the rumble under the floorboards when the carriages move from town to town. When he steps outside, the air always smells the same– a stale sweetness, old popcorn, and cigarettes and cheap whiskey. Maybe the last two are just him.
The bottles under the bed have multiplied. Their faint clinking keeps him company in the quiet hours. He started finding comfort in the sound. Jeonghan drags himself up once or twice a day to run water over his face. The tap always runs cold. He can’t remember if he ever fixed the heater. His reflection has started to look strange– edges too sharp, colour drained from his sallow skin, bedraggled hair, and deep hollows under his red-rimmed eyes. Looks something macarbe.
He lays in bed, hasn’t touched your favourite mug, half-full of coffee, left weeks ago on your nightstand. He blinks. Could it have been more recently? Wonders if the drink has muddled time for him. Maybe it was just yesterday? Maybe that’s why your scent still clings to the curtains, faint and so distinctly you.
There’s a sharp rap at the door that startles him out of his contemplation. When he opens it, there’s no one there. Just a thin mist rolling low over the grass. Jeonghan calls out, but his voice feels too quiet, like it doesn’t quite carry. No answer.
Back inside, he tries to listen for the others, the usual morning commotion– the rumble of footsteps, the laughter, the distant music from the rehearsal tents. Nothing. Only the faint creak of the floorboards when he moves, like the wood itself is sighing.
They’ve been giving him ‘space’– more like a wide berth. Jeonghan tell himself that’s just what people do when they don’t know what to say to the grieving. And still, when he does venture out, no one looks at him. He walks straight through clusters of stagehands tightening ropes, performers adjusting costumes, and not one of them turns. He stands close enough to smell the chalk on their hands, to hear their idle chatter, and they seem to shift away from him almost automatically. But they’re busy. Focused. No time to be distracted by someone else’s sadness.
Jun doesn’t meet his eye anymore either. The medium sits by the fire as always, cards fanned out like wings, but when Jeonghan stops by, Jun’s hand hovers above the deck, frozen.
“Do you want me to draw for you?” he asks quietly.
Jeonghan opens his mouth to speak, but Jun is already plucking cards. He sinks beside him on the floor. The Moon. The Tower, reversed. The Hanged Man. Ten of Swords.
There’s a long silence. Jun doesn’t explain what lays in front of them, but then he never does with Jeonghan. He just sits, hands clasped in his lap, working his bottom lip between his teeth. “You’re almost ready. When it’s time, stand in her place.”
Jeonghan blinks. “What does that mean? Stand in her place?”
Jun rolls his shoulders, stretching the ache of sitting out of them. “You’ll know when it’s time.”
Months ago, anger would have sparked in his gut at Jun’s deliberate obscurity, now he just feels nothing but flat, a dull resignation in his bones.
Back in the carriage, the air feels heavy with dust and stale smoke. He lies back down, the ceiling pressing close above him. The world feels so much dimmer without you, the edges blurring like an old photograph. He remembers the sound of your voice still, but it’s distorted. Only the rhythm of it rings true, the shape your laughter, and the crinkles around your eyes when you smile.
He closes his eyes, thinks of the way you’d climb the ladder before every show, all shimmer and grace, suspended above him. Thinks about how the lights caught on the sequins, turning you into something celestial. Thinks about how he could never watch you fall since the first time. Not the moment itself. Always the before, always the after, always looking away during the thick of it.
He wonders, distantly, when he started hating heights. The thought drifts away before he can follow it because he’s pressing his palm over his chest pocket again. It’s still there.
The room grows quieter, until even the ticking of the clock stops. He listens for his heartbeat and realises he can’t hear it. Maybe he’s just tired. He turns onto his side, facing the empty space where you should be, and pleads, “Tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.”
5. Acceptance
Another perfect day with you– waking wrapped in arms and sheets, and eventually hot coffee pressed into your hands to stave off the crisp of the morning. Didn’t bother telling you that it’s spring now, that two years have passed since you fell, because that won’t make sense to you, and he’s long since learned not to try. The last time he told you the truth, you’d gone ashen and practically catatonic, and the next morning you were gone for weeks. Went so badly that now he just keeps up the pretense. Keeps wearing his mask. Keeps his heartbreak next to your ring in a locked chest under the bed.
Things aren’t better, but they’re bearable. He’s drinking less– some days not at all. The past few weeks, he’s taken to twirling a pencil between his fingers instead of a cigarette. The smell of smoke still lingers in the carriage, but it’s faint now, diluted by the scented oil you once loved, that he keeps burning over a candle. The mirror stays clean. The sheets get washed more often. You still disappear, but you always come back. He’s learned to make peace with his curse. He’s learned that grief can be lived with, even if it never really leaves.
You hum softly while washing your face in the mirror, backlit by the pale morning light, and Jeonghan watches you with quiet fondness. You glance at him through the reflection, smiling gentle. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” he says. “You’re beautiful.”
You roll your eyes and laugh, the sound like warm rain. “You always say that.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
Jeonghan is softer now. The bitterness has faded into something else– a kind of resignation, maybe, or something close to gratitude. He can’t replace the light he’s lost in you, but you’re here. That’s enough. He’ll love your shadow still.
The day drifts by easily, like silk slipping between fingers. You practice, barefoot in the grass outside the tent, your body stretching and folding with the same grace that first stole his breath. Jeonghan lays on his stomach, sketching lazily in a half-filled notebook, pencil tapping rhythmically against the page. He draws the curve of your spine, the line of your jaw, the shimmer of sunlight on your sweat-sheened skin. You tease him for staring, but he only smiles. “Can’t help it,” he says. “You’re the love of my life.”
By nightfall, the air hums with the usual pre-show energy– music tuning, canvas rustling, laughter echoing through the narrow walkways. You take his hand and pull him inside the carriage before your time comes.
“Five minutes,” you whisper, tugging him close.
“Ten,” he counters.
You laugh, and it lights him up. “Fifteen?”
“Mm.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, and you walk him backwards to the bed. “Twenty.”
It’s slow, this time. Unhurried and reverent. His fingers trace your spine, gentle as your breath on his skin. When he slides into you, his vision clouds. You whisper loving against his skin– half-formed words, promises that can’t be kept. Before, it’d break him, but now it’s okay. He’ll live like this, with his waiting a thankless gift.
His blood is pounding in his ears when you whisper, “You’re so close.”
He’s at the end of this tender rhythm, and he nods, breathless. “Yeah, angel,” he murmurs. “Yeah, almost.”
But your eyes are soft, fixed on something beyond as you press your lips to his neck. “So close,” you murmur against the shell of his ear. “We’re almost there, baby.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Jeonghan stands by the opening in the curtain, hands in his pockets, practicing the same ritual. You’re already nearing the platform, sequins flashing like stars against the dark. You glance over your shoulder when you reach the top, blow him a kiss. He catches it, presses it to his lips. The same as always.
Except this time, he finds Jun standing beside him. Jeonghan looks at him, a hundred questions whirring through his mind.
“Are you ready to see it yet?” Jun asks quietly.
Jeonghan frowns, confused, but before he can answer, the music swells.
You step out onto the wire.
And everything snaps. The air thickens around him. He’s not now but two, ten, twenty years prior, more, maybe. All of these years happening at the same time, the timeline pulled taut together by the force of his awakening. Jun isn’t the young man he once was, but decades older. The spotlight burns white instead of orange. He sees it all. He sees it for what it is. The frayed end of the line, the knot that slipped. His knot. His hands. His fault. Distracted by you and your kisses and the night of your engagement and promise of what could be. The moment that rewound itself over and over until it rewrote him.
You fall.
This time, Jeonghan watches.
The gasp that tears from his throat never audible for anyone but him, and maybe Jun. The audience blurs into light and movement, the tent dissolving around him until there’s nothing left but the echo of the rope whipping through air. And in that sound, he remembers the rest.
He remembers the listlessness he slipped into after your body turned to ash. Remembers how he drank himself stupid to cope with his mess of a life without you, and the night he climbed the ladder, and how the dizzying height made him swallow back down the bile in his throat. He remembers the brief silence that followed his body hitting the floor, no crowd to watch him fall.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Now, he climbs again. The rungs are cold beneath his palms. The platform creaks gently, steady enough but it still sends nerves right through him. Below, the tent is silent. He looks over to find Jun, who nods, offers a half smile, and leaves without saying goodbye.
Jeonghan doesn’t need this, anymore. Knows whatever life this has been wasn’t meant to be, that he’s been stuck in this endless cycle, and now he understands that all this time you’ve been trying to help him see.
Stepping out is easier, the second time. And for a moment, it feels like flying. Dying, or rather dying twice doesn’t hurt, but the tears fall anyway, a sort of relief maybe, as he realises you haven’t been in pain the way he has.
All at once it goes quiet, and a fog settles over his eyes.
Acceptance is a misunderstood thing. It does not mean you stop missing the one you’ve lost, or that the pain has vanished. It means you begin to make room for the loss– to live alongside it, instead of within it. In time, you may find that your days hold moments of calm again. You may find yourself smiling at moments that once only made you ache. You may catch yourself laughing, or thinking of them without the familiar sting. This is not a betrayal of the person you lost. It is the mind’s way of learning to breathe again. It allows you to carry what was lost in a way that no longer crushes you.
Acceptance isn’t a finish line. It drifts in and out, the way light moves through a room when clouds pass. Do not be concerned if it seems fragile. Acceptance can come and go like the tide. This is normal. Remember that love does not end when life does. It simply changes form. And if you listen closely, you may find that it still speaks, quietly, in the spaces your person once filled.
The ground doesn’t feel cold like he thought it might. Doesn’t feel like anything but constant, steady. He doesn’t know where he’s going from here. But it’s okay. He’ll be okay.
“Jeonghan?”
He turns toward the sound. After all this time, is it you or your ghost?
“Angel?”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
thank you for reading! if you like it, please consider reblogging and letting me know your thoughts!
if you'd like to be added to the taglist for future works, i have one here
summary. remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love.
pairing. boo seungkwan x gn!reader
genre/tags. ANGST, (semi-graphic) major character death, interstellar au-ish (just the blight), non-linear narrative, blurred fiction and reality if you squint (sorry I reread goodbye eri while writing), unbeta’d (mistakes are my own)
wc. 5k
suggested listening. love wins all, iu // 消費期限, seventeen // triassic love song, paris paloma // eight, iu prod. & ft. suga // yawn, seventeen // something in the orange, zach bryan (or niall's cover)
notes. midnight in korea now; happy birthday Seungkwannie! this is very experimental, and admittedly i'm not fully satisfied w it, but I didn't know how to change it atp. sorry boo, it's your birthday but i give you pain. as always, reblogs are appreciated and come say hi if you're so inclined 🫶🏼
D-17
EXT. SEOUL TRAIN STATION – KOREA – DAWN
The sun rises over the ruins of Seoul Station. The air is clear of smoke and fog.
A shot of the sun peeking over the heap of steel, glass, and cement that once served as the station’s framing. The train tracks run to the far horizon, to the left and right of the frame.
Pan to YOU (young-looking though age is ambiguous, former writer, love of SEUNGKWAN’S life) squinting at an old, battered map of Korea’s train lines, and a compass. You’re wearing battered jeans that are slightly too big, boots, and a sturdy leather jacket.
Behind the camera, SEUNGKWAN (male, young-sounding though age is ambiguous, former video producer) narrates.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
BOO-log number 529. We’re now figuring out how to get to Mokpo. Neither of us are any good with directions, but my partner decided that we could try following train lines since the none of them are running anyway.
You look up at the sound of his voice, noticing the camera.
YOU
(exasperated, but fond)
Kwan-ah, are you filming again? We have 30 batteries, but not all of them might be working. You might need to save battery and memory if you want to video the view of Jeju Island.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
It’s okay, I really just wanted to record us before we start. Once we’re walking, I won’t use the camera as much. And I have twenty other SD Cards!
YOU
(not surprised)
Okay, we’ll definitely figure something out for the batteries, then.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Yeah. Now—
Seungkwan’s voice changes to a more formal tone, as though he were imitating a newscaster.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)
What are your thoughts as we start our newest adventure?
The camera catches your grin. You follow along, changing your tone to an impression of those backpackers in TV documentaries.
YOU
Um, I’m excited to see Jeju-do, even from afar, because it’s part of Seungkwannie, and we had our honeymoon there. As long as we’re careful, I know we can do it. If we’re lucky, we may even find someone who can bring us across.
Beat. You look ever so slightly awkward in front of the camera.
YOU (CONT’D)
Wait, here, give me the camera. I’ll record you this time.
The footage shakes, briefly showing a tiled floor, then train tracks, before panning to a blurry face. The camera shakes for a moment before the image comes into focus, revealing a beautiful young man with dark hair. Seungkwan does a better job at the “interviewer voice”, but you’re no slouch either.
YOU (O.S., CONT’D)
So, Seungkwan-ssi, what are your thoughts as we embark on a new adventure?
SEUNGKWAN
(genuine)
I think it’s about to be wonderful.
D–2183
When the Blight started, both you and Seungkwan were in high school. Though only having known you since that start of your third year, you’ve quickly wormed his way into his life—visiting his house, having dinners with your family, and he even managed to force you into joining the badminton club with him.
Bees now officially extinct, the news proclaims, an effect of the ravaging of nearly all plant life. Asia in particular has suffered; the widespread rice shortages due to it becoming impossible to grow resulted in widespread famine. The extinction of plants used for feed, made food prices across the board skyrocket. Corn, it seems, is the only crop that can resist the Blight—and the rest of the world now has to adjust its staple food to mimic the old Americas.
“Seungkwan.” You prod his ribs.
“Mm?”
“What would you do if the world ends tomorrow?”
“Marry you.” You laugh, until you realize he isn’t joking.
“What?” Your voice pitches to an incredulous squeak.
“Marry you,” he repeats.
“Why, though?”
“I always wanted to get married,” Seungkwan replies, after a moment of pondering. “And if the world ends tomorrow, as of today you’d be my best candidate for marriage.”
For a moment, you just look at him, eyes tracing over his features. Your steady gaze makes him shift, uncomfortable, wondering if he said something wrong. Eventually, you shrug, though there’s a twinkle in your eye as you quirk a smile at him.
“While I don’t support shotgun marriages, I’d make an exception for you and the end of the world.”
His breath catches, heart stuttering as he tries to parse your answer in his head. “Wha—you—”
“Come on, Seungkwan, don’t dish it if you can’t take it,” you groan, flopping sideways to plop your head against the armrest. Your legs tilt as you do, your foot brushing against his calf. He tries not to jolt at the contact.
“I’m sorry!” He pouts, trying to calm the uneven fluttering of his heart. You laugh, shifting your lean in the opposite direction, so your head lands on his lap. Despite having done it a thousand times before, he traces softly the way your hair falls, admiring the way its color contrasts with the color of his pants.
(Looking back, he’ll think about how that day changed things, even just by a little bit; how his gazes grew longer, noticing more how the sunsets glowed against your face as you walked home together every day, painting you golden. How you’d both gotten used to creative ways of shelter when mild dust storms come, thanking your luck each time that you had gotten home before it truly began.
He’ll think about how, a year from that day, he kissed you as he walked you home for the last time before you enter your separate colleges, swallowing the teasing took you long enough from your lips as he finished his shaky confession.
He’ll think of how you exchanged second buttons like those characters from that anime you liked did, and the quiet promises to make things work even as the world seems to turn more barren than both of you can follow.
He’ll think of how three years from then, he gets on one knee, to your tearful yes and salty kisses. Your small marriage, with just your families, batchmates, and some professors, followed by a beautiful honeymoon in Jeju. Despite it all.
None of these decisions had anything to do with the end of the world, but you and Seungkwan made them, nonetheless.)
D-9
INT. A TENT – A TRAIN STATION SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SEOUL AND MOKPO – NIGHT
The footage is grainy due to the lack of proper lighting; the camera shakes as Seungkwan seems to be trying to balance it on something. The tent is quite cramped; the inside is sparse, with only two sleeping bags and your knapsacks—Seungkwan’s with two camping pans attached with a carabiner.
The leather jacket you were wearing is now resting on one of the bags. You have both swapped your sturdy day pants for more comfortable, albeit worn, sweatpants.
Out of context, it looks like a vlog filmed by two campers on a hike.
The camera steadies as Seungkwan moves away. He moves to sit beside you. There is an easy intimacy as you thread your fingers together, almost mindlessly.
SEUNGKWAN
BOO-log number 531. We passed by a sign that said Nonsan. That means we’re probably halfway there.
YOU
We made progress better than expected, didn’t we? I estimated at least two weeks.
SEUNGKWAN
(nodding, excited)
I thought the train tracks would have been ruined, since the stations are, but they’re surprisingly reliable.
YOU
It’s true; of course there were times when we had to find our way around the tracks, or climb above anything that fell down over it, or go through some cornfields, but mostly, it seems we’ve been lucky.
SEUNGKWAN
By the way—everyone, it looks like we’re in a tent in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t it? Don’t be fooled, we set this up in a convenience store.
YOU
(laughing)
You ruined it! Now we can’t be funky backpackers with a tent on the train tracks.
SEUNGKWAN
(playfully lecturing)
It’s good to be truthful, you know. What if kids watch this someday? We have to be good moral people.
YOU
(with the remnants of a laugh)
Okay, okay. We set this up in the Seven Eleven inside one of the train stations. Abandoned, obviously. We made it in right before the dust storm hit.
SEUNGKWAN
Another good news today is that we managed to barter something for food.
YOU
Yeah. This one engineer or something—I think he’s a veteran? But we saw him tinkering on his porch and offered a trade, his corn for our cables, and now we have dinner.
SEUNGKWAN
(joking)
It’s not jokbal, but it’ll do, I suppose.
YOU
(groaning)
Oh my God, what I’d give for some jokbal right now. With bossam. And soju.
SEUNGKWAN
I’ll be dreaming of that tonight.
YOU
Anyway, everyone, we’ll end the log here, so we have enough batteries for a nice long BOO-log at Mokpo.
Both you and Seungkwan wave your corn (dinner) at the camera. You reach forward, covering the lens with your palm. The clip ends.
D–20
Seungkwan walks around the house. He’s doing his last checks, checking between what’s in his bag and what’s in the rooms to parse if he’s missed anything—batteries, your wallets, matches, passports, birth certificates, first aid kit, water bottles, toothbrushes, all the canned food in the pantry, the sturdiest kitchen knife you both owned (wrapped in two layers of cloth), the Swiss knife he was gifted a few years back, flashlights, a whistle, and all the carabiners and hard cash you had were already packed.
He finds you in your shared bedroom. There are a bunch of wires there, evidently cut from various appliances. You’ve wrapped the cables as neatly as you could manage. On the bed, you’ve laid all your dry-fit shirts and the sturdiest pairs of pants you both have. Then, from the dresser, you’ve collected the most expensive jewelry the both of you own—well, all of them, but you separated the expensive ones in another pile. He points to the latter.
“What’s that for?”
“If cash fails, maybe gold won’t. I don’t know, just in case the currency collapses. But they’re worth bringing all the same.” Also, you hold out copies of both your health insurances. He opens his knapsack and quickly stuffs them in the same place as your other documents.
“Last resort kindling?” Seungkwan offers, showing the cluster of documents in his compartment. The remark draws a quick breath of a laugh from you.
“Probably.”
“How about the wires?”
“You never know when we’ll need some emergency engineer bullshit; plus, if it comes to it, the wires will probably be better barter material. Before you ask,” you hold up one hand, “I edited a zombie novel a few years back. But if that kid was pulling out of his ass, we’re fucked.”
Despite your disclaimer, the no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way you’re handling the situation makes something settle in him, as though all he needed was an anchor amid the chaos. He pulls you close, placing a kiss to your temple. The tension in your body melts as you press against him. For a moment, Seungkwan just holds you. A temporary anchor before you need to move.
Turning to him, you offer a quick peck to his lips before holding up his trusted camera bag, worn as it is. “Bring it,” you tell him firmly. “We need a little bit of happiness. Get all the SD cards you have, too. In case we just never leave Mokpo. It’s small enough to stuff in our pockets.”
Seungkwan can’t help it; he grabs your face and kisses you. The camera bag sits between you awkwardly, but he doesn’t care. He savors this, the familiar taste of it, the contours of your face that his hands have long since memorized. You pull away, but not before kissing his lips again, then his nose. He’ll never quite get used to the way you look at him, as though there is something new to love each time.
“We’re gonna be okay, my heart.”
D-4
EXT – A LONG STRETCH OF BEACH – MOKPO, SOUTH KOREA – SUNSET
The camera captures a breathtaking sunset. The sky is a wash of oranges and pinks, the clouds purple yet lined in the light of the sun. Mokpo is on the southwest side of Korea; the view of the sunset is particularly beautiful, as the sun sinks down into the sea. There are faint silhouettes of islands both near and far from the shore. The waters are tranquil, and there are no sounds except for the steady wash of the waves on the shore.
The shot slowly pans to you. Your expression is tranquil, despite the dirt and tears across your clothes.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(soft, so soft you don’t hear)
Pretty.
YOU
(clueless)
Hm?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Nothing. Can you see Jeju Island from here?
He already knows where it is.
YOU
(laughing softly, a little sad)
To be honest, I don’t know which piece of land I’m seeing is Jeju.
A finger appears at the edge of the screen.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
There, that’s Jeju. Right behind the blob that looks like a hat.
YOU
(squinting)
Oh! Right, that’s what it looks like.
Beat.
YOU (CONT’D)
The view is beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sea.
Seungkwan hums the opening to Tears of Mokpo. You don’t recognize it until he softly begins to sing the opening lyrics.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(singing)
사공의 뱃노래 가물거리면…
YOU
(laughing outright)
That doesn’t have anything to do with Jeju!
He sings louder just to spite you. You playfully roll your eyes. Bending down, you unlace your boots and take off your socks, sinking your bare feet into the sand with barely-concealed relish. Seungkwan stops singing as he knows what you’re about to do.
SEUNGKWAN
Careful; don’t step on anything sharp.
As you move forward, the camera follows you. It is revealed that the beach is not so picturesque. The sea seems to have dried up some, and even here, bits and bobs of life float on the surface and linger in the sand.
There are the usual culprits: plastic bags, empty cans of alcohol and soda, and snack wrappers. Yet visible also on the camera are the following: bullet shells, shrapnel, a chair leg, a ragged pillow, and a cracked desktop monitor.
As all this is visible, the camera centers on you laughing, splashing in the saltwater and enjoying the breeze in your hair.
YOU
(calling; audio faint)
Seungkwannie! Come here!
A beat. The camera zooms in on your face.
YOU
Kwan-ah, come on! Hurry up!
SEUNGKWAN
(proximity makes his voice loud)
Okay!
A rustle. The camera is laid down, cloth (Seungkwan’s jacket) obscuring part of the footage. After a nudge, the cloth disappears from frame. Another figure, barefoot, joins you.
D–119
Jeju has officially been declared abandoned, lost for some other country to use as farmland. The radio announced the treaty ratification today. Seungkwan is a spectre around the house, listless and heartbroken.
Months ago, when the conflict began to escalate in earnest, he began whatever arrangements he could to ensure his family was safe, moving them as near to the farming areas as he could manage and encouraging them to share whatever techniques they knew could help former cities now learning how to farm. The news does not make the sharp pang of grief dull any less.
He is at the age when he is to receive a conscription notice; Korea has since shifted its system to split soldiers into those who will either fight on the front lines of the Resource Wars, or serve by tilling the land and ensuring that there is enough corn for the population, however dwindling. There is no guarantee on which one he is to get, even if he did register himself as head of household (and should hypothetically be assigned the latter), but he is due to receive news in a few months’ time.
The promise of the notice hangs over both your heads. In the mornings, you spend ten more minutes just looking at him, as though you were memorizing the shapes and contours of his features. At night, he curls into you more tightly than before; once you’d have complained that it was too hot, now, you simply wrap your arms around him and let him sink his face into your hair.
“Hey, Seungkwannie.”
“Mm?”
“Let’s go on a trip.” The hand mindlessly running through your hair falters.
He pulls away, looking at you with a furrowed brow. You keep your head low, pressed against his chest. “What?”
“Let’s go south. Yeosu, Mokpo, whatever, just near the beach, as close as possible to Jeju. Just…just see it, even from afar.” At his silence, you barrel on. “If we walk enough, we can make it in two weeks—a week if we can hitch a ride with one of those crop trucks or something—and then just another two weeks back, if we don’t settle in Mokpo outright.”
“Food—”
“I can pack us as much as I can. We’ll need to ration, and possibly trade, but we can do it. The treaty is in place, and it’s most dangerous up north right now. Going south isn’t as big of a risk, and the weather has been looking good lately.” Finally looking up, you cup his cheek, tracing the skin with your thumb. He presses his lips to your wrist.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, my heart. I just thought you might want to say goodbye.”
“I…” he falters. It’s tempting. Unbearably so, despite the nagging at the back of his head that it would be better to leave it at that, keep his memory limited to the days you spent there dodging dust storms and falling in love. He doesn’t know how much it’s changed. How much the ocean might have even dried up. He doesn’t know if he can stomach to see it. “Give me a few days to think about it?”
“Of course. All the time you need.”
D+29
Seungkwan’s life has been demarcated into two. Before, and after. He goes through the motions of the government-run fields: waking up, clocking in, eating breakfast, tilling the soil, weeding, lunch, the occasional drills in case they were still expected to fight, transporting corn from one warehouse to another, dinner, sleep. Repeat.
Not a lot of people are here; many prefer to till fields they own, or collectively own; for once, agrarian reform straightened itself out at the start of the Blight. Yet with the dwindling population—slowly withering family trees—those lands acquired by the government grew.
Sometimes, Seungkwan thinks of home. He was lucky enough that the head of the center, Seungcheol, was kind enough to register his name as part of the deployed cadets under his supervision, despite the incomplete paperwork he had when he stumbled into his field, frail and dehydrated from lack of food and water.
Home remains now only in his memory, and in every replay of the Christmases he captured on camera. The soil is more unforgiving than before; it distracts from the loneliness.
EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY
The wedding is humbly decorated with dried corn leaves fashioned into flowers, as there are no real ones anymore (none within the budget, anyway). Guests came as they are, though everyone has made an effort to clean up more than usual.
It is currently the reception, and the speakers are playing a quick beat. The guests are dancing, laughing, and cheering, though their movements are blurry and almost smeared onscreen (step-printing effect). In the middle of it, you stand, the only still figure in the frame. You’re smiling softly to someone behind the camera, very clearly in love.
Cut to Seungkwan, in a similar position, the guests around him dancing as but blurs. He is wearing a similar expression. He begins to walk forward.
You meet in the middle, still the only clear figures on-camera, and begin to dance.
As though the dance were a spell, the surroundings cut to:
INT. A MEDIUM-SIZED LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
EXT. SEOUL STATION, IN RUINS – DAY
INT. YOUR TENT (MAGICALLY ENLARGED) – NIGHT
EXT. LONG STRETCH OF BEACH (UNPOLLUTED) – MOKPO – SUNSET
Hold this image for a moment. The sea laps at your ankles. The bottom of both your garments brushes against the saltwater, but neither of you seem to notice. Both you and Seungkwan close the gap to meet in a tender kiss.
Suddenly, cheers. You part, and are back to:
EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY
The newly-married couple smiles and waves. The bottoms of their garments are damp.
D+167
It seems surreal to have all the batteries he wants, and even a computer where he can replay all his footage—more than 4000 hours’ worth of it. It took a few months of work to earn enough credits and rank to access it, but Seungkwan pursued the goal with single-minded purpose. There is enough electricity in this center to run a few computers, and Seungkwan is its most regular customer, painstakingly going through each clip on the dozens of SD cards he has.
For footage so far back, from when you had just been married, there are parts where he no longer remembers what happened after the clips end. They remain in his memory as but colored ghosts, warm-tinged with nostalgia. Cabinets that would never be opened again, now filled, in his dreams, with infinities.
The house of his memories blurs with the house of his oneirism. In both, he subsists on sleep and daydreams. But memory will betray; it won’t tell him if the house he remembers has been altered by each remembrance. So he watches his videos. He walks through his house, now only alive in film and reconstructed by memory. He sees himself and he sees you, in all the different iterations you both were. Wonders if he could stitch both into narrative. Wonders if he could even bear to cut any scenes. He’s never thought about the violence of that act until now.
Inventories do not just catalogue possession; they also measure the potential of loss. It was a quote from one of your writing workshops, discussed over a late dinner. You could still afford some meat then; Seungkwan had saved just enough for a small slab of cured pork, which you would cut tiny pieces from for both of you to enjoy before bed.
He has five minutes left of his designated slot with the computer.
Seungkwan watches, and he catalogues.
D=0
Seungkwan only remembers in flashes—a gunshot. A scream. It’s only when he replays that moment in his mind that he realizes it was his voice. Barely a thud as your body is cushioned by the corn leaves. Dark red liquid, somehow both grainy and slippery on his hands as he drags you into the thick of the field, away from the path, trying desperately to stem the blood while minimizing your trail. Until finally, he collapses, feet unable to bring him a step further.
More flashes—your eyes, only ever kind. Even at your last moments. The way you hold his hand and place it over the pocket you keep his SD cards, as though reminding him one last time. The way your eyes search his face, first desperate, and then resigned. The way he leaned in when you opened your mouth, to hear your final words, only to feel the ghost of chapped lips brush against his ear. The gush of blood that dribbles past your mouth that tells him you’re gone.
(The Resource Wars felt like more a backdrop than anything else; you had come this far without any altercation. Yet even as you screamed that you were not thieves, just travellers, the gunshot rang.
The cornfields weep with him as he leaves you behind, SD cards clutched in his bloody hand.)
D–4
TIME CUT TO:
It is twilight, now.
The camera is trained on the horizon. The sun has fully set, and night is beginning to settle in the sky. Only the barest hints of orange remain. The footage has already become slightly grainy due to the lighting.
Neither you nor Seungkwan are on the camera. Instead, voices are heard while the darkness arrives. It is not evident whether the footage was taken accidentally, or on purpose.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(softly)
I’m glad we came. Really, even if we couldn’t get to Jeju. I’m glad. I’m glad it’s with you.
YOU (O.S.)
(just as softly)
I’m glad too, my heart. You filmed the whole sunset, didn’t you? Start to finish?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Yeah. Yesterday and today. I have so much footage that I don’t know what to do with.
Breath.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)
Actually, that goes for all the BOO-logs. Even the ones from high school and college.
YOU (O.S.)
(surprised)
You never tried editing them?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
I have, but what then? There are hardly any theaters now. Nowhere else to post. And electricity is expensive.
YOU (O.S.)
Okay, but if we both die, what do you think’s gonna happen to this camera?
Seungkwan is many things; a prideful badminton player (before the Wars stopped sports events), a videographer, casual vlogger, and a corn field worker.
You are also many things; an editor (before your company closed from too little employees), author, copywriter, and occasional tiller.
Both of you still enjoy nurturing sparks of creativity when they come.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Mm. someone picks it up and it gets immortalized in a post-war museum. And our videos will be a special feature.
YOU (O.S.)
Oooh. And the war museum would be on a spaceship, with funky gravity and new plants and meat the astronauts domesticated from a different planet.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
And there’s a new jokbal. Call that out of this world delicious.
YOU
Stop!
Despite the terrible joke, you both laugh, then let the conversation drift into comfortable silence. The sun has fully set. Nothing much can be discerned visually from the footage.
YOU (O.S., CONT’D)
Hey, Seungkwannie.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Mm?
YOU (O.S.)
If you had the chance, like computers and steady electricity, would you edit all the BOO-logs into a short film?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(skeptical, but thinks about it seriously)
What would the plot even be? A married couple traveling to Mokpo, dodging dust storms and chasing each other through cornfields? Watching the stars at night?
YOU (O.S.)
(earnest)
Yeah! Or, y’know, make it semi-autobiographic, like two lovers wanting to visit where they first had their honeymoon. Or maybe I’m sick and you want to take me to the sea one last time? The footage earlier could fit with that storyline.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Don’t even say that!
YOU (O.S.)
(laughing softly, apologetic)
Sorry, sorry. But if you do make a short film, I want to be the first to see it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you work.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
What about you, then? Would you write a book about us?
YOU (O.S.)
Oh, definitely. And you’d be the first to read it.
The footage cuts.
D+182
Seungkwan replays the footage. Beside him, Vernon fiddles with a pen.
“What do you think about making this a short film?” Seungkwan asks.
Vernon stops.
Seungkwan may be their newest addition, but the rest of the crew has grown protective. He brings light to their conversations, effortless in his ability to entertain and bring laughter. Mingyu asks him of his favorite foods, especially the ones he misses from Jeju, even if recreating them is near impossible. Seungcheol reprimands anyone who tries to bully him into giving up his share of rations. Junhui has begun to joke more, noticing how Seungkwan seems to be particularly into his humor.
Yet everyone recognizes the sadness that still clings to his heels.
Vernon looks, for a long moment, at the monitor, frozen with a picture of a smiling face he’s never known—never personally, only ever through the screen and Seungkwan’s stories, always shared in quiet whispers in the privacy of his room.
He knows, though. Knows that this person was real. They loved, and were loved. It speaks in how the camera follows whoever is in the frame. The cuts of certain clips, as though either the person behind the camera joined their partner or had a moment that could not be captured in film. Most of all, it was the way whoever was in the frame would, without fail, smile at the person behind it.
“I think,” he replies, choosing his words deliberately, “that you are in a unique position to dictate how someone is to be remembered by those who never knew them. And…” he hesitates, wondering if two months of these quiet conversations is still too little to be so candid with his friend, especially when talking of loss.
So, so much loss.
Seungkwan answers that question for him. “It’s okay, Vernon-ah.”
“…Well, I just wanted to say that it’s a burden to bear, is all.”
EXT – A CORNFIELD UNDER THE STARS – NIGHTTIME
The stars have emerged, visible in all their glory. After the start of the Blight, when the population began to dwindle, electricity and many other resources became scarce. Much of the light pollution that was once a problem has disappeared. Brilliant dots twinkle overhead. To you and Seungkwan, it could pass for the Milky Way.
The POV seems to be at a low point; stalks of corn are visible at the edges of the frame. Yet the stars are bright, captured exceedingly well.
You’re softly speaking aloud Laura Gilpin’s The Two-Headed Calf. It was one of the poems you memorized in college, as a creative writing major.
YOU (O.S.)
(as though from far away)
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
Long beat.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Twice as many stars as usual…let’s look up together.
YOU (O.S.)
I see the stars, my heart, but I’m tired…
A breath hangs in the air. Some rustle of cloth, as though someone had adjusted so you fit together. A soft sigh.
YOU (O.S.)
Good night, Seungkwannie.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
…Good night, darling.
End.
note. are the screenplay bits from the short film? the raw sd card clips? his memories? distorted memories? guess we'll never know. nonlinear bc grief is nonlinear. pls tell me your thoughts (even/esp if u didn't get the story lol) take care of yourselves always <3 EDIT: here are annotations of this fic for anyone willing to indulge 1.1k of my meta
VIV WHEN I CATCH YOU. i've always been a little too scared to read this because it just looked like it would tear me up on the inside. however today i committed and can confirm: i will never ever ever be the same.
i think this is and will always be one of the best fics i've ever had the honour of reading. viv, you have a talent that brings your readers to life: breathing trembling things that burn their way into your mind forever.
^ "love of seungkwan's life" being a defining characteristic struck me so hard on the second read through. it's so simply stated and i think that makes it all the more powerful.
^ IMAGERY GOES CRAZY. these lines feel like a memory forming in real-time. there's a softness and a warmth and a haziness to them that show us, already, that they have their own world. a shift from habit to affection so deep it overwhelms.
^ the undercurrent of hope!!!! the UNDERCURRENT OF HOPE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
genuinely i think time stopped moving when i read this part. the realistic awkward touch of the camera bag!!! the last line in particular. im going to throw myself off a cliff GOODBYE FOREVER! this entire fic reminds me SO MUCH of below excerpt from george sand's letter to gustave flaubert. (full collection found here, i have not read it all LMAO, but this one is specifically 27 june 1870)
^ GOODBYE. i love the way this line kind of just slips in. the same way it slips out of seungkwan's mouth -- it's so natural. he doesn't say it to be heard it's literally a thought SO full of tenderness it barely makes it past his lips.
^ they are so in LOVE. no matter what, they remain so in love.
^ i think this part really hits on how memory and loss live side by side. and it's SO worth noting the way you weave time and memory together -- it's stunning. nothing’s linear, yet it all makes sense, and all the foreshadowing and all of the fragments falling into place as the story unfolds is both satisfying but Painful. the soil metaphor too... it’s almost easier for seungkwan to focus on that harshness than the ache of being alone. the contrast with the next cut being to the WEDDING i cannot do this goodbye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
^ excuse the colour change i did not realise while writing. BUT. the way you write here is so poetic without ever feeling forced or overdone. it's such a beautiful metaphor for how memory works --not as a clear, sharp thing, but as ghosts, soft and a little mysterious. the past is both vivid and blurry at the same time, so full of warmth but also unreachable, and that makes it HURTTTT. and the cabinet filled in his dreams with infinities..... who told you this was OKAY. it’s such a beautiful painful contrast between the finality forced on them and endless possibility of what they could have hadjlhgodfhg
(😂🔫) i knew it was coming the first time, and i definitely knew it was coming the second time. it doesn't make a difference. the emotion your words evoke is overwhelming.
the writing is delicate but full of rawness -- there’s a softness to it even in such a devastating scene (the SD CARDGHIDOFGI;D), but it’s also sharp, and it cuts straight through you. like a knife. or multiple knives. at once. i hate you im crying again
first of all im never forgiving u for this i think my heart was just ripped out of my chest. second of all your exploration of grief and memory is so stunning and so skilled. the memory of someone not just as a collection of facts or images, but as a living presence shaped by how we hold them in memory and how we remmeber them aloud to those around us. JSVL;UFL.HLVD;B IM IN SO MUCH PAAAIN there's so much hesitation and quiet honesty in the dialogue and it feels so genuine im breaking down sorry . anyway
"you are in a unique position to dictate how someone is to be remembered" -- it’s such a delicate burden. the writing doesn’t flinch from that responsibility. "so, so much loss." just four words, but you feel them like a punch. many punches.
THE NOISE I MAD WHEN I FIRST READ THIS VIVVVVVVVV. im wailing btw. this is one of my favourite poems ever and i just. my brain rebooted i dont have words. this poem is already laced with this idea of ephemeral fleeting beauty and like. inevitable tragedy. it fits so seamlessly. SO seamlessly.
so ive just cried my eyes out for about half an hour.
viv you have so much talent im staggering under the weight of what i just read but in the best way possible. the way you use memory like a medium, by layering past and present is so clever, so well done and so so heartwrenchingly beautiful. and the CAMERA. it's such a good tool to power the whole story onwards. it’s like love itself guides the lens, making every smile and every look and every cut proof that this person was here, real and deeply known. it just adds so many layers to the story, give us so much of a glimpse into the people you've created -- because they don't feel like characters, they feel like real living breathing things in front of me, and you've conjured a love between them that is bone-deep.
and GRIEF. (my god am i grieving.) you don’t just tell us seungkwan’s grief; you let us feel it. and even if you know what's going to happen, it doesn't stop it from taking your breath away. grief isn’t loud here --but a constant hum in the background of everything, always there, always present. in everything: the tenderness of a hand placed over a pocket. the way the camera lingers, not just on faces, but on the space between them, the places they've been. and in those D+ excerpts, you can viscerally feel the absence growing larger than the frame can hold.
he carries the grief. he holds in careful hands: memory folding into muscle memory. and it's so accurate to how grief truly is. you walk with it. you carry it like seungkwan does: in your breath, in your bones. it leaves you wrecked, but never empty.
the call back to the two-headed calf at the end feels like a thread pulling everything together, so so gently. that's the part that made me cry the most. it's the kind of poem that understands exactly what this fic understands: that brief, beautiful lives are not diminished by their brevity. that something can be strange and sad and still full of love.
for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and… a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his ‘partner’, mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
🩵 pairing. formula one driver!kim mingyu x influencer!reader.
🩵 word count. 21.k.
🩵 genres/includes. romance, fluff, humor. alternate universe: non-idol, alternate universe: formula one. mentions of food, alcohol consumption; profanity. the alex albon-ification of mingyu, down bad/yearner!mingyu, 97z adjacent to 2019 rookies, williams slander (soz).
🩵 notes. this is part of cam&em studio’s lights out collaboration. i had somehow deluded myself that this would not be that long, but combine my two special interests and.. bam 😦 always so humbled to be among caratblr greats. ty for hosting, @camandemstudios!!! let’s go racing!!! ᯓ★
Mingyu likes to think he’s calm. Composed. The kind of driver who takes Monza in stride, doesn’t let the history or the speed or the ridiculous number of Ferrari fans turn his knees into jelly.
That’s the version of himself he would like to believe. The truth is, Monza is the track that raised him. He was fifteen the first time he snuck into the stands with a handful of friends, listening to engines scream like they could shake the sky apart. Now, he’s back as a Williams driver, pretending he’s not vibrating with the same teenage excitement. Pretending the goosebumps under his race suit are just from the morning chill.
“Still staring at the track like it’s your first crush?” Seokmin’s voice drifts over, amused and much too loud for Mingyu’s pride.
He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.
Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”
“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”
Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.
“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”
“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”
Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”
Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”
Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.
And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.
Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”
“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.
Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”
Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.
“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”
Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.
Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”
Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.
Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.
Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.
Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.
Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.
Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.
On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.
But still. No podium. Not yet.
He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.
Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.
Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.
Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13.
Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately.
Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”
Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”
Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”
“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”
That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”
Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”
“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”
“Maybe buy it dinner first.”
They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”
Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”
“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”
“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense.
But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption.
Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.
“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”
Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.
Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.
Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.
He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.
Your name.
It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing.
The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.
Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”
And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.
Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.
The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic.
Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps.
Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.
He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.
Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.
Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.
The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio.
There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”
He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.
“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”
“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”
He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.
He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.
The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”
He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”
It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish.
The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.
The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”
Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”
“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”
“…Thanks, gu—my what?”
The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.”
He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.
Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.
Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.
But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.
Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.
“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”
He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”
A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)
Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”
“What about it?”
“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”
Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”
Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.
It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.
His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.
Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.
The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.
Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum.
But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.
Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.
Partner. As in…?
He doesn’t even know you.
He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.
Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”
Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.
The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.
God, Mingyu thinks, unfair.
Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.
“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”
You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”
Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”
Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”
PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”
Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”
“And you’re certain?” PR presses.
“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”
“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”
PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.
The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.
He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.
He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.
What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”
James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”
“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”
The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him.
Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.
There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot.
The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.
Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.
Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at.
Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.
The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.
The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.”
Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.
Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.
A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.
He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.
“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.
“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”
Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”
“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”
The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.
Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.
By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.
Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.
Until the morning of qualifying, that is.
Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.
Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.
He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.
Deletes.
Types again. Wow!!!
Deletes harder.
What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.
With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—
He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.
He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.
But his thumb betrays him a second time.
Sent.
A beat.
Delivered changes to Seen.
Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.
Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.
Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.
| yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though.
Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply.
| min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you.
There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears.
| yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.
He grins despite himself, typing fast.
| min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.
| yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨
Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.
| min6yu_k: Guilty
| min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.
This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.
| yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything
| yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’
Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:
| min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.
Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.
| yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u
| min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍
The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:
| yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock
| yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀
The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.
He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.
Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.
“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.
Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”
“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”
He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”
“Negative, keep pushing.”
He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.
The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”
His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”
Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”
There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.
Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.
The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.
Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.
Of course. Of course.
You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”
Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.
“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”
Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”
You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.
Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.
Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.
By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.
He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again.
Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.
Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.
Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile.
Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.
Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.
The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.
“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”
“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”
“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.
The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.
Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.
Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.
Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?
But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished.
Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.
Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.
It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.
He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.
In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.
He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.
The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.
“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.
“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”
“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.
Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”
“Am not.”
Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”
Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.
On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.
For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you.
No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.
Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”
Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”
Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.
By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”
Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”
“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.
“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”
“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.
“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.
The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.
One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.
“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”
Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”
You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.
He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.
The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.
Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.
You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”
You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”
Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”
“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”
The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?
You sigh, breaking the stalemate.
“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”
That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”
The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.
He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.
But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.
Mingyu pretends not to care.
He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.
Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder.
Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.
Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.
Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.
Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”
Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”
Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”
For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.
Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”
“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”
Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”
Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.
Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.
He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”
The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.
You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.
“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”
Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”
“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”
He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”
You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.
“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”
Mingyu stares.
You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.
“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”
“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”
Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”
Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.
That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.
He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.
Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.
A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.
The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.
Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.
He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.
A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck.
Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.
For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”
Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.
“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “
Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”
The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.
And then it rains.
Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”
“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”
His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.
The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”
Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”
The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.
“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”
The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out.
He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”
Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.
When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.
The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.
“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”
Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.”
He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.
By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.
The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.
When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”
And then he sees.
It’s you.
You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.
His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”
You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.
Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”
Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?”
He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy.
You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”
He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”
That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’
He stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”
“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”
“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”
You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”
He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”
“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”
“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”
The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.
For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all.
Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.
“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”
You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”
Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”
Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.
Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.
You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”
You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.
“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.
For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.
It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?
The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.
He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.
“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”
There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.
Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4.
The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”
Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.
Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”
The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.
He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”
The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his.
His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.
It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.
Your story.
It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.
Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.
Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵
Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.
The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.
Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)
They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”
Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”
“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”
“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.
Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”
“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.
“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”
Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.
Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”
Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.
He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other.
The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.
Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.
He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.
Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.
The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”
“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”
You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”
“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”
Your brows lift. “What happened?”
Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”
You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”
“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”
“You’re doing it very poorly.”
“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”
He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”
“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.
Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.
“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”
You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”
“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”
You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”
There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.
He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”
“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.
Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”
You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.
At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.
Like an actual couple.
The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.
It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.
His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:
| min6yu_k: Hey
| min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive.
| min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore
| min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺
It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise.
Except three dots appear. Then a reply.
| yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :)
Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer.
At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.
When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption:
| min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.
You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering.
| yourusername: sardinia? how original
| yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️
He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager.
Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.
And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.
But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.
This is where it gets him:
Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.
| yourusername: help me pick?
It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.
Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.
By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.
Your reply comes minutes later.
| yourusername: perfect
| yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️
Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too?
That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.
But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has?
He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance.
Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.
Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.
| yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well
| yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮💨 is that stupid?)
His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.
“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.
Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days.
| min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????
| min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then
| min6yu_k: Because I miss you too
The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.
He calls anyway.
The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”
“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”
“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”
“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”
There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.
Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”
He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”
You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”
Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”
Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself.
The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.
Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.
He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.
Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.
A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.
You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”
“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”
That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”
You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”
Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.
Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.
He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”
You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”
The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.
He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.
He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.
He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”
“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”
“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”
You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”
“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”
You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”
“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”
“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”
“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”
The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.
At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.
You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”
Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”
And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.
You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say.
He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching.
The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.
Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.
Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.
There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.
“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”
Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.
And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.
No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.
Just open track.
Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”
“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”
P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015.
Now it’s him. Now it’s real.
The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams.
“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”
Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”
He keeps driving.
For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race.
Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.
“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.
“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”
Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.
But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”
He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.
And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.
The world resumes its natural order.
By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.
He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.
When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”
Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.
Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.
And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.
You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”
As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.
Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”
You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.
“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”
Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.
Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.
“You have to break up with her.”
That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.
Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”
“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”
“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”
“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”
Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”
“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”
He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”
“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”
Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.
Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”
His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”
Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.
The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.
He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.
“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”
Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”
The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up.
You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.
He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.
You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”
You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.
It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.
He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.
It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”
“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”
“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”
“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”
“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”
Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”
You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”
He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.
Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.
Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.
The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”
“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.
You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”
For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”
“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”
Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”
You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”
That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.
He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.
So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”
The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.
Your brows knit. “No?”
Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.
“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”
You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse.
“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”
The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.
Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”
It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—
“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”
Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”
You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”
He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.
You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”
Oh.
Oh.
His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”
Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.
His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.
You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.
When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”
Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.
Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him.
He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.
Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.”
The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.
They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.
But then—then—he sees you.
You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.
“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”
Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”
Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.
He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.
You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.
“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”
You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”
Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”
Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.
“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”
“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”
Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack.
Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday.
For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.
The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.”
His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.
He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise.
The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no.
James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed.
Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.
And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.
Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug.
He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.
He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.
Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl.
The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.
He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.
Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.
And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.
Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.
He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.
He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya.
Eight laps.
Six.
His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”
Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in.
The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his.
Four laps.
He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady.
Three laps. Two.
Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.
Final lap.
The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight.
The checkered flag waves.
Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.
The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.
Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”
Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.
That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you.
“Did you see, baby?” Mingyu chokes, voice cracked and breaking. “Are you proud of me?”
☀︎ pairing: chwe hansol/vernon x fem!reader
☀︎theme: actor!vernon, director!reader
☀︎ w/c: 8k
☀︎ warnings: 18+ MDNI, fluff, smut, strangers to co workers to lovers, Vernon causing problems for his boss, deeply inappropriate use of a lake, semi public sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (that's a no no), semi-public sex, angst if you squint, feelings of being lost
☀︎ a/n: written as part of the That's Showbiz, Baby! collab put on by @studioeisa and @diamonddaze01 - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist and find your coworkers! this fic directly alligns with @chanranghaeys ceo lee chan fic! thanks all of my people who had to hear my near daily crash outs about this insane vernon fic i wrote, can't thank them enough: @seungkw1, @lovetaroandtaemin, @haologram, and the entire cast of That's Showbiz, Baby!
as always likes, reblogs, AND COMMENTS are greatly appreciated! enjoy!
Hi there!
My name is Y/N L/N and I am a film director. You may have seen my work at the Diamond Film Festival last month. I am currently in the process of casting my next project and thought that Vernon could potentially be a great fit in the lead role.
I have attached the audition script and a brief synopsis of the storyline to this email. Please let me know if this seems like the type of project Vernon would be interested in, I would love to see what he brings to the character!
I know this is potentially a busy time but if there is interest feel free to ask any questions! I will be holding auditions on June 30 at the Maestro Event Space!
Regards,
Y/N L/N
Director
“Absolutely not.” Vernon had hardly finished reading the email before he heard the stern voice of the CEO in the doorway.
“Why not?” Vernon challenged as he leveled his gaze at Chan and slumped in the old computer chair. His fingers found a peeling piece of fake leather and he began to pick at it.
“We need to focus on getting you in projects with bigger names,” Chan eyed Vernon ripping up the chair. “Not working with nobody directors who are making a movie with a cast of two.”
“Damn, you even read the synopsis?” Vernon clicked his tongue. “Wanted to be informed when telling me no, huh?”
“Vernon,” Chan sighed. “Don’t be like that, I just want what’s best for your career.”
“Do I have any auditions coming up?”
“Well–” Chan blanched under Vernon’s scrutiny. “No.”
“Well, maybe I do now.” Vernon pushed away from the desk and pushed past his boss.
You let out a sigh of frustration as you backspaced the email in front of you for the sixth time. It had been four days since you emailed Vernon’s business account with no response. Time to expand your search and reluctantly not have all your eggs in one basket. Hence the attempt at emailing Jeonghan Yoon, another actor you could see playing the part.
However, you had your heart set on your leading man being Vernon Chwe, so this email was not coming together. Sure, you could just copy and paste the email to Vernon and change it a bit but…that was for him not Jeonghan. In the middle of your seventh attempt at getting it right your computer pinged with a notification. An email from Vernon.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Interest in Audition
Hey Y/N
This project seems like a really cool concept. See you on 6/30.
- V
You deleted the email to Jeonghan.
You straightened out the extra copies of the audition script for the millionth time since you set them out five minutes ago. To say you were nervous was an understatement. This was the first time you had held auditions with confirmation a certain actor would show up, instead of just a small glimmer of hope. You weren’t sure what to do with that confirmation.
Preproduction for you was always a one woman show, you were the only one you trusted with your vision after all. Soul Meets Body was no exception, this movie was something you had been passively writing through your past projects, just waiting for the right time for it to come to life. The cast was small, the team was small, but the story would make a big impact if all went according to your plans. Vernon had agreed to audition, so your plan was going really well so far. You knew you wanted to be a part of this since you saw his acting a few years ago.
A quiet knock on the door pulled you out of your thoughts.
“Hi there,” a young woman peaked in the door. “I hope I didn’t interrupt, I just wanted to make sure I was in the right place!”
“Yes, I’m ready for you if you’re ready for me!” You plastered on a smile. She shuffled into the room and handed you her resume. Taking a deep breath she began the monologue you planned.
People filtered through slowly throughout the day. Some impressive, and some not so much. You had a book full of notes by the time the last hour of auditions rolled around. There weren’t many people who showed up, but enough to give you some options. You glanced at the clock and nervousness panged in your chest. Vernon had not shown up yet.
You rose from the table and began pacing the length of the room. There were a few actors that came today that could play the role. Casting someone else would change the feel of the project, but it wouldn’t ruin it. Even so, your thoughts began to spiral through potential matches in the people who auditioned today.
Someone cleared their throat behind you.
You whipped around to see Vernon in the doorway.
“Am I too late?” He fidgeted with the sleeves of his button up shirt.
“Absolutely not!”
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Official Offer
Good Afternoon!
I am extremely excited to offer you the role of Adam in my upcoming project, Soul Meets Body! Should you accept, filming begins on July 20, 2025. Please let me know if you have any questions or would like to discuss this offer further. Please accept or decline by July 10, 2025.
Looking forward to hearing what you decide!
Y/N L/N
Director
Vernon spun in the office chair as his coworkers filtered into the board room. The monthly meetings were new, some futile effort from Chan to make everyone feel united or something.
“Good morning Vernon!” Seokmin, the A&R, beamed at him. Vernon delivered a half-hearted salute to the man, his coffee hadn’t kicked in yet. Following Seokmin, Mingyu and Minghao burst into the room, quietly bickering, probably about something Mingyu posted on the company social media that wasn’t quite image appropriate. Seungkwan was at Mingyu’s heels yelling something about public image being everything. Mingyu effectively ignored his reprimands and beelined for the coffee maker. Seungkwan plopped down in the chair next to Vernon.
“Can you believe that guy?” He hissed. Vernon chuckled at his friend’s dismay.
“Yeah I can actually, didn’t you help hire him?” Vernon pointed out.
“That’s not the point!” Seungkwan sat up straight. “The point is that he–” His rant was cut short by Chan entering the room with the CFO and clapping his hands loudly. The CFO scurried into a seat next to Minghao.
“Alright everybody!” Chan started. “Today’s agenda is pretty slim, just focusing on updates for the upcoming month.” He gestured to Seokmin, “Let’s start here.”
“Well! Things are exciting here in the A&R world!” Seokmin began. Vernon tuned out quickly, he didn’t really care to know the inner workings of the company, just as long as he was getting jobs. All he had to look forward to right now was seeing you again and the start of filming. He had looked up the location for filming on his phone last night before bed, out in the woods somewhere, outside a rural town about an hour’s drive from his apartment.
He thought about how your hair would look when the sun caught it, about you behind the camera. He leaned his head back onto the chair, the ceiling tiles stared back at him. He sighed in the fluorescent lights. Maybe several months out in the woods would do him some good. Away from Mingyu’s burnt coffee and Seungkwan’s dramatics. He just needed to figure out how to not act like a total loser around you.
“Vernon?” Chan’s voice cut through his swirling thoughts.
“Hm?” He sat up to see everyone staring at him.
“Your updates?” Chan narrowed his eyes.
“Oh, uh,” he adjusted his posture in the chair. “I start filming a new movie in two weeks.” There were murmurs of “congratulations” around the room. Seokmin was beaming at him again.
“Yes,” Chan said through gritted teeth. “So we won’t be seeing much of Vernon for the next few months, everyone wish him luck. He was adamant that this project was something he wanted to be a part of.”
After a few more mundane announcements Chan dismissed the meeting. Everyone began filtering out slowly. As Vernon rose from his chair he felt a hand circle his wrist and tug him back down. He fell back into the chair and looked over at Seungkwan.
“Is this that director you’re obsessed with?”
“Define obsessed.” Vernon avoided the question.
“Seriously.” Seungkwan deadpanned.
“I wouldn’t say obsessed.” Vernon shrugged. “I admire her work and her ideas.”
“So you’re in love with her.” Seungkwan rolled his eyes. “Try not to make a fool out of yourself for once, okay?”
“Good morning everyone!” You beamed at the complete cast and crew. “Welcome to the first table read of Soul Meets Body!” There were cheers around the room. You made eye contact with everyone who gathered to help you make this movie. “We’re going to do just a casual table read today, just to get a feel for the project and the people involved.”
You sat and began reading the scene setting directions in your script. You felt his eyes on you, even without looking up you knew he was watching you instead of following along in his own copy of the script.
His voice rang out as soon as you were finished reading, his first line coming out of his mouth as if this was the role he was born to play. You smiled to yourself as you listened to Vernon and Leah work through the scene for the first time as a team. Stealing a glance at him, he was focused, professional. The highlighter you provided was perched in his fingers delicately, he twirled it absentmindedly every so often.
Eventually, the script was read front to back and people were mingling in the room. You watched everyone with a smile on your face.
“Here you go.” Vernon’s voice came from beside you. He held out the piece of paper with his name typed on it to you.
“Thanks,” you placed the name card on top of your own, starting a pile. “Great work today.” You smiled.
“Oh,” he chuckled, “Thanks, the script is so cool, I’m excited.”
“Well thanks for being a part of helping it come to life.”
Filming started a few weeks after the table read, and everything went better than you could have imagined. You weren’t sure what to do with all the excitement of this dream coming true for you. Leah and Vernon had a natural chemistry about them, you could believe their story, even though you wrote it.
You packed up your supplies as the rest of the crew thinned out and headed out for the day. The boxes of supplies, props, and your cameras piled high and you contemplated how you would get it all to its rightful places.
“You need help?” Vernon once again was at your side, also eyeing the large amount of your supplies.
“That would be great actually.” You sighed. He nodded simply and picked up a few stackable boxes. You slung your camera bags over your shoulders and grabbed the remaining box. “My cameras and stuff will go in my truck but the boxes go in the cabin!” You called out to him.
“Got it!” He affirmed from in front of you. The two of you made your way to the cabin and he pushed the door open with his foot. He set his boxes down and then turned to take yours. His fingers brushed yours as you let him take it off your hands.
“Thanks, that would’ve taken way longer without you.” You sighed, patting your pockets looking for the key to the cabin. You found it in your back pocket.
“Oh no worries, gotta help your director where you can.” He shrugged and shuffled out of the cabin so you could lock up. “I was really excited when you emailed me, you know?” He confessed, kicking the gravel under his feet.
“You were?” You tried to level your voice, you didn’t want to sound like some weird fangirl.
“Oh yeah,” He smiled at you as the two of you made your way toward your car. “I kind of don’t shut up about how much I like your stuff.”
“God,” you blushed. “I emailed you because I think your acting is so perfect for this.”
“I guess you could call us a couple of fans, then.” He smiled at the color in your cheeks.
You straightened the blanket slung across the back of the couch. That wasn’t right, you took it off and threw it more casually. A whine of frustration escaped your lips, this had to look realistic.
“Are you okay?” A voice piped up behind you, making you jump. You spun around to see Vernon in the doorway to the cabin, two coffees in his hands.
“You’re early.” You clutched your chest.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He said softly, taking a few steps toward you. He held out one of the coffees to you. “I was up so I thought I’d provide your caffeine for the morning.” He looked between you and the coffee. “I just guessed what you’d like.” He smiled sheepishly.
“Thanks,” you smiled back at him. “I’m, uh, set dressing. I usually do this alone before anyone gets here.” He nodded and you took the coffee from him. He began walking around the couch scanning the blanket.
“You’re trying to make it look lived in?” He looked up from the scene at you. You nodded back at him. “Let’s try this then.” He set his coffee down on the small table at the side of the room and sat down on the couch, wrapping himself in the blanket. You stared at the back of his head and pulled out your polaroid camera.
The sound of the shutter broke the momentary silence in the cabin. Vernon threw the blanket off of his shoulders onto the back of the couch as you threw the small photo into a drawer of the prop hutch. Vernon picked up his coffee and gestured to the blanket.
“I feel stupid, I could have done that.” You carefully returned the camera to its carrying case.
“Sometimes you just need a new perspective.” He smiled. “What’s this?”
“Oh, it’s just a polaroid camera.” You looked up at him. “I like to take pictures and hide them around for me, or someone, to find later. Kind of like a physical reminder of memories I guess.”
“You have such a wonderful mind.”
“Rachel, you know I love you, please just talk to me!”
You watched Vernon and Leah through the monitor as they played out the scene in front of you. Vernon was more perfect for this part than you could have imagined. He brought a creativity to each scene that was so distinctly him.
When you cut, you invited the two of them behind the camera to watch the scene. Vernon pushed his hand through his hair and let Leah walk over ahead of him. You were satisfied with their performance but Vernon requested one more shot. He felt like he wasn’t as natural as he could have been.
Throughout the rest of the day he stole glances at you whenever he could get away with it. He was so impressed with your dedication to your craft. You dressed every scene yourself, you knew how you wanted everything to look, sometimes pieces he would have never even thought of.
“Oh let me help you!” Vernon rushed to you after filming had wrapped for the day and took the box of supplies from your hands. You sent him a thankful smile and picked up another box. “Where are we taking these?”
“The back room,” you tilted your head toward the cabin up the access road. He nodded and started up toward it. You followed him up. He set down the box inside the cabin and reached for the one in your hands.
“Need anything else?” He asked sheepishly.
“No, I don’t think so.” You looked up at him. He shuffled his feet on the gravel road as the two of you walked away from the cabin.
“Okay well,” He smiled as you approached your car.
“I might stay for a bit,” you blurted out. “If you want to keep me company?” He nodded enthusiastically. The sun was starting to set as the two of you walked further along the road. You could see the lake from the outskirts of the forest where the gravel makes way for a small one lane road, your production shut down traffic access for the month it will take to film. No one really came out this way anymore so it wasn’t a hard sell to the small town.
“Excited to film in there.” Vernon stated simply, nodding toward the lake and stuffing his hands in his pockets. You followed his gaze.
“Yeah,” You chuckled. “You might freeze your ass off.”
“Worth it, as long as you get the shot.” He looked back to you and winked. You couldn’t help the blush that spread over your cheeks. He watched you squirm for just a moment before continuing forward, onto the road. “Tell me something I don’t know about you.” You blinked at the sudden change in subject.
“Oh, um,” you thought. “I know a lot of constellations.” You shrugged.
“Teach me?” He looked over his shoulder at you. Sure why not you thought to yourself and gestured to the road in front of you as you sat down. You sat cross legged as Vernon occupied the space next to you. He leaned back on his hands and stretched his legs out in front of him.
“So,” you started. “Those three stars,” you pointed toward the sky. “They are the handle of the Big Dipper, which expands into Ursa Major.” Vernon nodded quietly beside you, shuffling closer so he could see where exactly you were pointing. You could hear his breathing, slowing now because he was focused.
“Wait,” he whispered. He scooted behind you. “Do you mind?” You shook your head and he tucked himself behind you. He spread his legs so you were nestled between them and once again stretched them out in front of you. “Show me again.” His breath fanned across your neck as he leaned his chin on your shoulder.
“There,” you were sure he could hear the waver in your voice. He followed the line of your arm with his eyes and searched the sky for the three stars you were referencing.
“Oh I see it!” You could hear the smile in his voice. “And that connects to Ursa Major.” You nodded, pleased that he remembered. “Ursa means bear.” He stated, you weren’t sure if he was telling you or reminding himself.
“Oh you speak Latin now?” You teased. He shrugged behind you.
“There’s lots you don’t know about me, yet.” Your stomach swirled at the implication.
“Okay, tell me something.” You twisted slightly to try and look at him. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around your waist, effectively preventing you from turning fully. You tried to steady your breathing, surprised at his boldness. You felt a bit like a teenager, not like an adult who is making the breakthrough movie of their career.
“I think my boss might hate me,” His low voice rumbled through you.
“What?” You laid your head back onto his shoulder and stared up at the night sky, the stars winking at you through the trees.
“He was really against me doing this project.” He admitted quietly. “It was an argument up until the first day of filming.” You stiffened at the confession. He rubbed soothing circles into your shirt. “I’m Lee Chan’s problem child, always have been.” He sighed. “Doesn’t matter that I’m older than him. He always has his tabs on me, very much wanting to keep my career linear.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d much rather I not take risks.” Vernon admitted. “I don’t think of you as a risk, I know how good you are at what you do. Chan does not.”
“I feel like a lot of people don’t know.” You mumbled, a feeling of inadequacy settling in your stomach.
“What are you talking about?” His grip on your waist tightened. “You are so talented, your work is some of my favorite stuff.”
“But getting started was a risk.” You told him. “My parents are still worried that it won’t work out, but what would I do if not this.” You closed your eyes. Vernon had this way of making you so comfortable that you were able to admit your fears.
“I think you’re doing just fine.” He whispered as he moved his chin from your shoulder. “Y/N you’re so talented and you have such a unique way of telling the story you have in mind.”
“Sometimes I wonder if there’s anyone out there who understands my vision.” You wriggled out of his grasp so you could turn to face him. His hair was falling into his eyes and he was looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky just to teach him about the constellations. “But I think you do.”
“If I didn’t believe in you or this project I wouldn’t have worked so hard to be a part of it.” He moved closer to you, like the two of you were magnets and he might die if he wasn’t touching you. His fingers gently moved your hair behind your ear and lingered there. “Y/N, can I kiss you?”
You nodded dumbly.
The kiss started slowly, tenderly. His lips moved tentatively against yours, evident that he had been thinking about this for a while. He cupped your cheek with his hand. You reached out and tangled your fingers through his hair, pulling a small noise from Vernon’s throat. He pulled you closer and deepened the kiss, he swiped his tongue against your bottom lip and you opened up for him. He licked into your mouth, he tasted like tea and vaguely like tobacco.
Vernon moved his hands to your waist, fingers slipping underneath your shirt ever so slightly. His calloused fingers dragged roughly on your soft skin, you shivered at the contact. He continued to move closer to you until he was laying you back gently. Your head settled on the road and Vernon’s weight was on you. Everywhere was Vernon, everything was him, you weren’t sure you cared.
He moved to attach his lips to your neck. He left sloppy open mouth kisses from below your ear to your collarbone. There was a distinct dull ache between your legs, you attempted to press them together to get any kind of relief but Vernon was there instead. He returned his mouth to yours and experimentally rolled his hips into yours. You whined into his mouth, encouraging him to continue.
“You sound so beautiful when you make that sound.” He grunted above you. He continued to rock his hips into yours, weakly stimulating your clit. It wasn’t enough, but it would do. Pleasure mounted weakly in your belly as his cock grew hard in his jeans. He buried his face in your neck, you could feel his short breaths on your skin.
For a moment he pressed his hips down and let you grind up into him. The friction against your cunt was delicious. You rolled your hips faster, chasing a high you weren’t sure was coming. Too many barriers. Suddenly, he brought his hips back to yours with a snap.
“Vernon,” you whined breathily.
“Hansol,” He breathed to you. “Call me Hansol.” He nearly begged.
“H-Hansol, more, need more.” His hips sputtered at your request and he languidly rolled his hips into you at a quicker pace. If you felt like a high schooler before, it was tenfold now. You would feel stupid about how quickly you hurtled toward the edge with nothing but some dry humping, if the hard press of his clothed cock didn’t feel so good.
Vernon felt the bite of the stray gravel on his knees, but he didn’t care, not with the delicious sounds of the beautiful girl writhing underneath him. He’d tend to the bruises tomorrow.
You furiously flipped through your copy of the script, the pages all dog eared and highlighted. Vernon eyed you from the opposite side of the small couch on set. He watched you grow more frustrated as you went back and forth between pages.
“Hey.” He called out softly. You glanced over to him, catching his warm gaze. Vernon lightly pulled your legs over his lap. “What’s going on in your head?” An exasperated groan left your lips and you let your script fall over your face as he pulled you closer.
“I need something besides lighting to visually cue the shift in time.” You grumbled from beneath the papers. “Like, the scenes after Leah dies will be blue toned, but you can’t just look the exact same…” Vernon hummed. You peaked out from behind the script. He was staring off into the distance, clearly thinking.
“I could shave my head.” He shrugged. You scrambled up, the script fluttering to the floor.
“What?” You blinked at him.
“I could shave my head.” He repeated, as if it was obvious. He dragged his fingers soothingly over your exposed legs.
“Like,” you shivered at the gentle touches. “A buzz?” He nodded. “I couldn’t make you do that.”
“I suggested it, Y/N.” He chuckled. You leaned forward and captured a piece of the hair framing his face between your fingers. Vernon watched you carefully consider his hair, pushing it out of his eyes. He saw the shift from yourself to director of this movie in the way your eyes narrowed at him.
“If you’re sure…” You mumbled. He nodded dumbly, willing to do anything to make this project successful. Your eyes flicked to his lips and back to his hair.
“I’m sure,” He licked his lips. “I want this to be the best movie you’ve ever made.”
“Seems like a selfish desire, Hansol” You leaned closer to him.
“Maybe I’m a selfish man.” He cracked a cocky smile before lightly pressing his lips to yours. You melted into his touch and allowed him control of the kiss. He parted your lips with his tongue and began exploring your mouth, not unlike he did out in the road last week.
You began to attempt to pull away but he tangled his fingers through your hair and made a noise of protest. Vernon was not ready to let you go. You allowed him to lick into your mouth and deepen the kiss. His mouth tasted like tea.
“I have clippers at my place,” he whispered as he moved to plant searing kisses on your jaw.
“Today is your last scene for the past.” You stated breathlessly. He hummed in affirmation against your skin.
“Come over and shave it tonight.” He mumbled.
“Me?” You nearly shrieked. He pulled back to look at you fully.
“Yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow at you. “Who else?”
“Anyone else!” You placed your hands on his shoulders. “I’m a film director not a hair stylist!”
“It’s a buzz Y/N.” He deadpanned. “Besides, you're pretty good at everything.”
Vernon’s apartment was pretty much what you imagined it would be. His living room walls were covered in posters for various movies, some of which featured your own name. He wasn’t lying when he said he was a fan because you weren’t even sure where he would have gotten these. His laptop was on the coffee table with a pair of headphones still plugged in, like he had rushed out this morning.
He kept the place lit with only lamps, the overhead lights pretty much collecting dust. There was a feeling of comfort and warmth that was so distinctly Hansol. You watched him move through to the kitchen.
“Where did you get this?” You wondered out loud looking at the theatrical poster of your latest release.
“Uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about it?”
“No seriously, I’ve been looking for it.” You turned toward him.
“Oh my God, if you need it, you can have it.”
“Nah, it looks better here than it ever would in my agency.” You winked at him. He blushed and wandered toward the kitchen. You turned your attention toward the rest of the posters and his collection of DVDs.
“Wanna order take out?” He called to you, pulling back from the refrigerator once he realized he really needed to go grocery shopping. Filming wrapped for the day about two hours ago, it took the two of you that long to clean up and get to his apartment. Tonight was the first time the thin wall of professionalism had come down, you were nervous.
Vernon appeared from the kitchen, grabbed your hand, and pulled you next to him on the couch. “It’s okay, Y/N, nothing has to happen,” he rubbed circles into the back of your hand with his thumb. “You’re just here to shave my head and maybe eat something.” He smiled at you.
One meal and several stolen kisses later you were standing in his kitchen, clippers in hand. You ripped a hole in a trash bag and shoved it over his head. He made a muffled sound of surprise and turned toward you.
“To catch the hair.” You stated simply. You dug in your bag and pulled out your camera. He eyed you and you watched him through the viewfinder for a moment before snapping the picture, catching it as it printed out. “Before.” You stuck it in his silverware drawer.
He sat down in the chair you carefully pulled into the center of the room and spread another trash bag under. His brown eyes looked up at you expectantly. “Ready?” You asked, nervously. He nodded up at you. You took a deep breath and turned on the clippers. The machine vibrated ecstatically in your hand. Moving toward him you squeezed your eyes shut.
“Open your eyes, babe.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but the nerves were evident in his tone. Your eyes popped open.
“Sorry.” You replied sheepishly. The clippers connected with his head, your eyes stayed open, and your tongue popped between your lips in concentration. Vernon’s eyes were locked on you for the entire process, just like when you’re in director mode, the care you put into everything was obvious. Vernon felt lucky that you put this level of care into anything to do with him.
You ran your hand over his skull. “It’s done.” You muttered. It was almost unfair, how good he looked with a buzzcut.
The water was up to Vernon’s waist, still he waded further. You watched the water creep up his shirt above the water. Peaking at the screen on the camera you called out to him,
“Vernon! You can stop there, framing looks good!” He turned back toward the camera, toward you, and flashed a smile and a thumbs up.
You called action and watched him transform from your Hansol into the character you crafted, partly for him. He delivered his lines to the woods surrounding the lake, screaming and splashing. This scene was a pinnacle in the movie, Adam was seeing his wife’s ghost and desperately trying to get to her, just to find she wasn’t real. After Vernon finished his scene you would have Leah in the lake. The film will be layered over each other to give it a disjointed feeling.
You had never seen Vernon act in a scene like this before, you were almost nervous going into today, but he blew you away. He truly had a passion for this work, and for your movie. You weren’t sure how you struck such gold with the two cast members you found.
Vernon got his shot within a few takes, he scrambled out of the lake and took the towel from the shore. Leah met him at the edge of the water.
“It’s warm, don’t worry about that.” He laid his hand on her shoulder and she laughed. She began to wade into the water, her white dress pooling around her. Vernon joined you behind the camera. “Got it quick, just like I said.” His voice was low so that only you could hear him. He watched Leah get deeper in the water through your screen from behind you. His hand found your hip. You stiffened under his touch, so casual in front of everyone.
“Leah!” You called. “I have the framing! You’re good!” Vernon dropped his hand.
The sun sunk below the horizon, casting golden hues on the surface of the lake hours later. Most of the crew had packed up and headed home a few minutes ago. You carefully detached your camera from the tripod and packed it in its case. Then, you turned to fold up the tripod only to find Vernon already starting the task.
“These going to the cabin?” He asked.
“Yeah, but I was going to stay out here for a bit.”
“Want company?” He put the folded tripod with the camera bag.
“Yes I do.” You declared plopping down onto the sand near the shore. He chuckled behind you and shuffled behind you. He held you the way he did a few weeks ago when you taught him about the stars. His arms snaked around your waist.
“Over halfway done, how you feeling, Madam Director?”
“Ew.” You giggled. “I feel good about the movie, you and Leah are more amazing than I could have imagined.”
“I meant it when I said I wanted this to be the best movie you’ve ever made.” He rested his chin on the top of your head.
“I’m a little scared of what happens after though.” You admitted. “I’ve been working on this for so long, where do I go from here?”
“I think everything will work out the way it should.” Vernon assured you, the double meaning wasn’t lost on you.
“Do you want it to work out that way?” You whispered.
“Absolutely, as long as it’s what you see for yourself.” A silence fell between you, it was comfortable and introspective. The implications of the brief conversation settled on the two of you like a blanket, shutting out the rest of the world.
You turned towards him and held out your hand. He let you pull him to his feet and lead him to the water. The moon was high in the sky and casting shadows across his face. He caught your gaze and held it as he sank to his knees in front of you. A quiet gasp escaped your lips. He chuckled as he broke eye contact to tug on your shoelace.
“You’re terrible.” You sighed and stepped out of your shoes and allowed him to take off your socks.
“What did you think was about to happen, baby? You have all your clothes on.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before, Hansol.” He stood back up and crowded your space. His lips brushed yours just barely.
“We’ll see.” He whispered before crashing his lips against yours. Your arms wrapped around his torso and pulled him as close as you could. The sand was cool on your feet but the heat of Hansol was all encompassing. His hands slipped underneath your shirt shamelessly. He swallowed your breathy noises as he dragged his fingers up your rib cage toward your breasts.
He lifted your shirt over your head quickly and returned his hands to your skin. The want ripped through your body faster than you expected. Your hands found the button of his jeans. Hansol kicked off his shoes to allow you to easier get them off. You tossed them up the beach toward your bag. His large hands covered your breasts and kneaded the flesh over your bra.
“You’re so beautiful, you know?” He breathed into your mouth. His fingers ventured back and found the clasp of the bra. The fabric fluttered to the ground, you felt exposed but you weren’t sure you cared. He stepped back briefly and his eyes raked down your body as he took off his socks. His shirt came off quickly after.
He stepped closer to you and hooked a thumb under the band of your underwear. Kisses peppered down your neck until he reached your collar bone. He began to suck deep bruises into the skin there. Slowly, his fingers swept against your cunt experimentally. You moaned at the slightest contact. Hansol smiled against your skin and dragged his fingers through your folds.
“Hansol, please.” You whined. The calloused pad of his finger slowly began to circle your clit. You nearly jumped out of your skin at the delicious contact. He slipped your panties down your legs and allowed you to step out of them. Carefully, he pulled you against him, your back flush against his chest. His clothed cock was hard against your ass as his fingers returned to their ruminations. You felt like you might have exploded at this alone.
His fingers slowly swept through your folds again before dipping shallowly into your entrance. You moaned at the intrusion, encouraging Hansol to push in further. A second finger found the spot inside you as his thumb met the delicious bundle of nerves. You were hurtling toward your high embarrassingly fast. Your hips bucked slightly to meet his pace.
“It’s okay, baby, I got you, you can let go.” His gravelly voice rumbled through you. You could feel him rutting helplessly into the swell of your ass through his boxers as the thread in your stomach snapped and your vision exploded into a million colors. He held you through the after shock of your orgasm and slowly removed his fingers from you.
“Take these off.” You reached behind you and snapped the band of his boxers. You started up the beach toward your bag as he all but ripped them off of his body. He watched your body bathed in moonlight return to him with your polaroid in your hand.
“Memories worth keeping?” He chuckled as he let the water touch his toes.
“Yes, if not this, then what?” You asked, raising the viewfinder to your eye. You saw Hansol, completely bare just for you, lit by only the moon, in the small window. The shutter snapped. Running up the beach, you grab the photo before it falls to the ground and you put the camera in your bag and you set the developing picture into the bigger camera bag which let less light in.
He reaches for your hands as you return to him. You allow him to guide you into the lake slowly. His eyes never left yours as he guided you deeper and deeper. The lake was not too deep even in the middle, so Hansol could touch the entire time even when your toes left the floor. He held you so tenderly and protectively.
“Come here,” he whispered and pulled you even closer. You wrapped your legs around his trim waist and he held you there. His eyelids drooped with desire as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your lips. Slowly the kiss became more and more heated. His tongue explored your mouth, even though he was confident he could map it out from memory by now. Your hands toyed with the barely there strands at the nape of his neck. “Do you want to try something with me?” He asked, his eyes fluttering open. You nodded, too afraid to break the moment.
He adjusted his grip on your thigh and guided his hard length to your entrance. You watched the droplets of water dripped off of his long eyelashes as he slowly sheathed himself inside of you. You heard yourself gasp before you realized you were doing it, the stretch was absolutely delicious.
“Oh, Hansol,” your voice was breathy and your eyes fluttered closed as he held you tightly and began to fuck up into you. You felt every single drag of him against your walls.
“You feel so good,” he whined. “Feel like you were made for me.” His pace slowed, an agonizing attempt to make this last longer. You buried your face in his neck, the water licking your cheek as he began to pound into you again. The sound of your moans and breaths were too close to his ear, you were going to drive him wild, as if you hadn’t already. You wrapped around him, he was surrounded by you, and he wasn’t sure how he could keep his hands off of you in front of everyone after he has had you like this.
Hansol felt the sting of teeth against his earlobe. His thrusts became erratic as his high suddenly mounted. Fingers pressed into your thighs almost painfully you whined, but only because it felt good. Your second orgasm bubbled in your belly and you reached down and began to stimulate your own clit. You felt like you were out of your body, the pleasure too much. Hansol’s hips sputtered and with a choked sound he began to release thick white ropes inside of you. Your orgasm crashed into you quickly after he began to fill you up.
“Oh my God, Hansol.” You mewled unabashedly as the pleasure wracked through you. Hansol thrusted weakly under you as you rode out your high. He kissed your hair as you began to come down. Slowly, he pulled out of you, a feeling of emptiness spreading through your body.
“C’mon, let’s get you on solid ground.” He cradled you against his chest and carried you out of the lake.
Vernon sighed and ran a hand over his buzzed head. He still wasn’t used to seeing himself in the mirror without his hair. This was his first day back at the Sebong building since you shaved his head in the middle of his kitchen. He was nervous.
The sound of the bathroom door swinging open made him jump and scramble to get the beanie over his head.
“Hey,” Seungkwan offered as he saw Vernon. His eyes grew wide as he took in the appearance of his friend who was trying to hide the glaringly obvious change.
“Oh Hansol,” a wicked grin spread over Seungkwan’s face. “Lee Chan is going to kill you.”
“Shut up Kwan.” Vernon grumbled, pulling the beanie down over his ears. “He won’t even notice.” He said firmly, trying to convince himself.
“Sure, Sol,” Seungkwan chuckled, planting his hand on top of Vernon’s head and shaking it a bit. “He’s waiting for you with Minghao in the boardroom, good luck.”
“Fuck.”
Vernon strode into the room, a thinly veiled air of panic behind false confidence. He plopped down in his usual chair, the one with the peeling vinyl, and leveled his gaze at Chan and Minghao.
“Vernon!” Chan smiled at him. “Just who we were wanting to talk to!”
“Yeah, and I would have never known if Seungkwan didn’t find me in the bathroom.” Vernon slumped and crossed his arms over his chest. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, uh, I’ll cut to the chase.” Chan leaned forward. “I have it on good authority that there might be something going on on set. Care to share?”
“Nope.”
“Vernon.” Chan said with a warning tone. “Are you–why are you wearing a beanie? It’s July.”
“I wear beanies, Chan. Nothing weird about it.”
“What did you do to your hair?” Chan pressed nervously.
“That’s not what this meeting is about, is it?” Vernon replied coolly.
“Just tell him you shaved your head so I can do the part of my job that doesn’t involve wrangling you.” Minghao spoke up. Vernon sent him a glare from across the table. “You aren’t exactly good at secrets, Vern.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side, Hao.” Vernon slipped the beanie off his head.
“Oh my God.” Chan buried his face in his hands. “Why did you do that?”
“Movie demands.” Vernon shrugged. He wouldn’t dare tell Chan it was his idea.
“He shaved his head.” Chan muttered to Minghao who rolled his eyes.
“Mourn my dead skin cells if you want, but can I go?” Vernon asked hopefully.
“No!” Chan sat up, “We haven’t even talked about what we’re here for! Vernon, are you having relations with your director?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” Vernon looked between Chan and Minghao. Minghao seemed disinterested in this dispute.
“This could turn into a PR nightmare.” Chan retorted. “If it is true.”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Vernon pushed away from the table and stood.
“Stop fucking your director.” Chan insisted. Vernon stopped in the doorway to the boardroom and looked back at his boss.
“No.”
You flipped open the lid to your big camera bag and clapped your hand over your mouth. Vernon, who shows up early every day now padded over to you to see what was wrong. He peered down into the bag and laughed in disbelief.
“That’s my dick.” He stated.
“Yeah no shit!” You hissed and slammed the bag closed. He thought you were cute when you were flustered like this. He reached over, opened the bag, and plucked the polaroid from its place on top of the camera.
“Here,” he ran his hand over your ass and slipped the small photo into your back pocket. “For safekeeping.” You gawked at him in disbelief as he rose to stand and greet his makeup artist as if nothing happened. You stared at the back of his head until he was out of your sight.
The cast and crew convened in front of the cabin about two hours later. Everyone was looking at you, waiting for you to say something.
“Well,” you started. “Today is the last day of filming. I want to thank each and every one of you for believing in this project. I can tell just how much everyone cares by the work we have all done over the last several weeks.” You smiled sadly at everyone, eyes lingering on Hansol. “Let’s make it another great day guys.”
Cheers exploded from the small crowd of people and you finally felt like you were where you were supposed to be. Various members of your small crew came to give you hugs and congratulations and then the work started.
Leah and Vernon never let up until the very end, they both gave their all. You watched Vernon talk tenderly to the sky in what would be the final scene of the movie. His emotions rolled over him in waves, tears falling from his eyes. You couldn’t help your tears from falling behind the camera. What next?
“Cut!” You called. “That’s a wrap on Soul Meets Body.” Your voice cracked. Vernon was running to you. His arms encircled your waist and he lifted you off the ground and spun you around. You could hear the cheers from everyone around you, finally everyone being able to see the not so well kept secret in front of them.
One Year Later…
“Are you ready for this?” You asked, smoothing your hands down the sleeves of Hansol’s suit jacket.
“I am, are you?” He smirked. “They’re going to ask about it.”
“Let them.”
Leah, Vernon, and yourself stepped out into the light. It was a small premiere, so not too intimidating but this felt more intense than any other premiere you’ve had in your career to date.
“Y/N, as the director, was there anything driving your passion for this project?” An indie film journalist asked quickly before anyone could get a word in.
“Y/N!” Another journalist called. “Is there anyone in particular in the cast or crew that made this movie such an important one?”
“I can’t say much,” you started. “But I can assure you, this movie was made with a lot of love.”
CONTENT: drabble, fluff, established relationship, vernon is very loving here! (possibly a teensie bit ooc), reader has a little anxiety in crowded places, slightly suggestive (kissing, allusions to sex [barely])
WORD COUNT: 1.2k
SUMMARY: three ways in which vernon uses the belt loops of your jeans not for its intended purpose.
note: i love kiwi vernon guys...................................
WHEN YOU'RE DEFIANT, it's usually out of pettiness. Though you aren't directly opposed to it, there's lingering annoyance in your demenor. Vernon knows that when your chin turns away from him, it's a disapproval of your loss in rock-paper-scissors. Well, losers weepers.
"So, I guess it's pasta tonight," he says, following behind you. You can hear the cheekiness in his voice, that of a winner's tone.
You slow down your strides on the sidewalk, making room for him to walk beside you. "Guess so."
He's trying. He's really trying to resist the smile that creeps up on his face, but right now, you need coddling because you just lost a pizza night again.
At the crosswalk, Vernon notices the distance between you guys. He notices the stubbornness in your stance, the way your arms are crossed, and your pursed lips. For a second he actually thinks you're upset, but he knows you well enough that you'd speak up if you had concerns.
"Why do you propose a game of rock-paper-scissors when you never win?" He asks. "You know, we could just get pizza--"
"That'd be cheating!" You exclaim. "And since you won fair and square, we should make… pasta."
Vernon only smirks, nodding to your words. "Right. It would be unfair since I won--even if I was offering to have your choice tonight."
"Exactly." You murmur, watching the crosswalk's signal.
He rolls his eyes, adjusting his leather jacket. Your eyes remain set on the light, avoiding his gaze.
When the signal changes, you’re just about to step forward before Vernon gently tugs at your waist, fingers hooking into your belt loop, making you catch your breath. He casually pulls you closer, then unhooks his fingers and throws his arm over your shoulders.
“You’re a sore loser,” he mutters closely, just loud enough for you to hear.
Your pace falters and becomes one with his, and despite his playful insult, you let one arm wrap behind his back. You exhale through your nose--half laugh and sigh. “Is that offer for my choice still available?”
Vernon clicks his tongue in disbelief, shaking his head. “Oh, I’m not too sure about that. You already turned it down and made a very good point on how that would be cheating.”
You glance up to be met with his dorky grin. “Yeah, you’re right. Pasta it is then…”
He tugs you closer, quickly pressing a kiss on the side of your head. “We’ll save pizza for next time, definitely. No games, alright?”
"Fine, no games." You giggle.
WHEN IT'S CROWDED, it's a mutual agreement that losing each other is the last thing you need happening. Whether it's a concert, downtown, or heck, even a rave, you both agree that you must stick together.
In the sea of bodies, Vernon navigates you to the nearest wall at some house party Mingyu invited you both to. The bass is not favourable. The songs pounding through the speakers are so loud that you don't even hear what reassuring comment Vernon makes everytime he looks back at you.
You lip read, "I dislocated my shoulder," and you know that's not what he's really saying--it's the music's fault, you think to yourself. All you can do is nod awkwardly as he leads you in further.
It feels endless, the shoulder bumping and the occasional running into. Until it actually hits you, well, a body that is. You're inadvertently shoved back by a stranger who profusely apologizes once you caught your balance.
"No, no, it's okay, really!" You assure them. Except, it really wasn't okay. You've lost Vernon.
You don't remember feeling this nervous in a place like this. The bodies around you move like waves, not giving you a chance to look over them. And sure, you have been to parties like this before, but maybe you forgot what those are like without Vernon.
"Let's find the nearest wall," was what he said before you entered the house. It plays over and over in your head until you feel something pull at your waist.
When you look to your side, Vernon's fingers hook into your belt loop, pulling you flush to his side. He slips his fingers out and places a hand on your lower back, ushering you to a more secluded area.
He lowers his head right by your ear, quietly whispering, "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, I'm okay," you whisper back. "Thanks though. I was actually a bit freaked out when I couldn't see you anymore. It's crazy in there, I don't know where Mingyu would even enjoy himself."
"Beats me," he chuckles. "There's for sure way too many people in this house. No way that's allowed, right?"
You hum, the weight on you feeling a lot less now.
Vernon takes your hand into his, raising it up to his lips to lightly peck. "Let's just hold hands for the night so we don't lose each other again, okay?"
Gosh, if your heart could not feel even warmer than it already was, Vernon was there to prove you wrong.
WHEN HE NEEDS YOU, he'll never outwardly say it. It's not that he can't verbally express himself, it's just that this is a different feeling. Instead, he'll show you, or there will be signs that your boyfriend is craving your touch.
Whatever mundane chore you're doing right now, he's watching. Not watching how you handle the mugs--he's watching you.
As he shyly approaches the counter, he places his phone on the marble with a light thud to make his presence known, just so he doesn't startle you.
"Hey, Nonie," you chirp, placing the mug back down. Your attention averts to him, who is stalking closer until he stands on the opposite side of you.
"Hey," he quietly says, resting his lower back against the counter, "need help?"
You sigh, turning your back to continue sorting the cups. "No, I'm just about done now. Sleep well?"
"Mhm... yeah," Vernon mumbles, voice low. He shifts his body lazily against the counter, his hands acting as anchors on its edges. "Was kind of cold, though, y’know, since you woke up early ‘n left me." he adds, hoping you'd pick up on what he really means.
And here you are grinning to yourself because you know exactly what he wants--no, needs.
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that..." You say, giving him faux sympathy.
Vernon doesn't immediately respond, only letting out a scoff jokingly. He notices that you're not out of arm's reach, so with his hand raised, he sneaks his fingers into your belt loop, tugging you back lightly.
You're glad you aren't holding any glass cups because you barely manage to ground it on the counter before your back meets with his chest.
His head dips to your neck, lips brushing your skin, and he finally mutters, "You can make it up to me."
When he removes his fingers from your belt loop, you feel his hands grip each side of your waist, gently spinning you around so that you're facing him.
"That bad, huh?" You laugh, throwing your arms over his shoulders. "Since you're so cute, I might as well..."
Vernon flashes you his wide smile, hugging you closer. His head leans towards yours, capturing your lips with his. As his kiss deepens, it's a bit lazy but with intent, the kind that expresses himself without needing to say it out loud. Boy, is he glad to have you.
another note: thank u for reading my first fic posted on here
summary. remembrance is also reconstruction. reconstruction presupposes loss. a meditation on memory, narrative, and grief. and, of course, love.
pairing. boo seungkwan x gn!reader
genre/tags. ANGST, (semi-graphic) major character death, interstellar au-ish (just the blight), non-linear narrative, blurred fiction and reality if you squint (sorry I reread goodbye eri while writing), unbeta’d (mistakes are my own)
wc. 5k
suggested listening. love wins all, iu // 消費期限, seventeen // triassic love song, paris paloma // eight, iu prod. & ft. suga // yawn, seventeen // something in the orange, zach bryan (or niall's cover)
notes. midnight in korea now; happy birthday Seungkwannie! this is very experimental, and admittedly i'm not fully satisfied w it, but I didn't know how to change it atp. sorry boo, it's your birthday but i give you pain. as always, reblogs are appreciated and come say hi if you're so inclined 🫶🏼
D-17
EXT. SEOUL TRAIN STATION – KOREA – DAWN
The sun rises over the ruins of Seoul Station. The air is clear of smoke and fog.
A shot of the sun peeking over the heap of steel, glass, and cement that once served as the station’s framing. The train tracks run to the far horizon, to the left and right of the frame.
Pan to YOU (young-looking though age is ambiguous, former writer, love of SEUNGKWAN’S life) squinting at an old, battered map of Korea’s train lines, and a compass. You’re wearing battered jeans that are slightly too big, boots, and a sturdy leather jacket.
Behind the camera, SEUNGKWAN (male, young-sounding though age is ambiguous, former video producer) narrates.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
BOO-log number 529. We’re now figuring out how to get to Mokpo. Neither of us are any good with directions, but my partner decided that we could try following train lines since the none of them are running anyway.
You look up at the sound of his voice, noticing the camera.
YOU
(exasperated, but fond)
Kwan-ah, are you filming again? We have 30 batteries, but not all of them might be working. You might need to save battery and memory if you want to video the view of Jeju Island.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
It’s okay, I really just wanted to record us before we start. Once we’re walking, I won’t use the camera as much. And I have twenty other SD Cards!
YOU
(not surprised)
Okay, we’ll definitely figure something out for the batteries, then.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Yeah. Now—
Seungkwan’s voice changes to a more formal tone, as though he were imitating a newscaster.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)
What are your thoughts as we start our newest adventure?
The camera catches your grin. You follow along, changing your tone to an impression of those backpackers in TV documentaries.
YOU
Um, I’m excited to see Jeju-do, even from afar, because it’s part of Seungkwannie, and we had our honeymoon there. As long as we’re careful, I know we can do it. If we’re lucky, we may even find someone who can bring us across.
Beat. You look ever so slightly awkward in front of the camera.
YOU (CONT’D)
Wait, here, give me the camera. I’ll record you this time.
The footage shakes, briefly showing a tiled floor, then train tracks, before panning to a blurry face. The camera shakes for a moment before the image comes into focus, revealing a beautiful young man with dark hair. Seungkwan does a better job at the “interviewer voice”, but you’re no slouch either.
YOU (O.S., CONT’D)
So, Seungkwan-ssi, what are your thoughts as we embark on a new adventure?
SEUNGKWAN
(genuine)
I think it’s about to be wonderful.
D–2183
When the Blight started, both you and Seungkwan were in high school. Though only having known you since that start of your third year, you’ve quickly wormed his way into his life—visiting his house, having dinners with your family, and he even managed to force you into joining the badminton club with him.
Bees now officially extinct, the news proclaims, an effect of the ravaging of nearly all plant life. Asia in particular has suffered; the widespread rice shortages due to it becoming impossible to grow resulted in widespread famine. The extinction of plants used for feed, made food prices across the board skyrocket. Corn, it seems, is the only crop that can resist the Blight—and the rest of the world now has to adjust its staple food to mimic the old Americas.
“Seungkwan.” You prod his ribs.
“Mm?”
“What would you do if the world ends tomorrow?”
“Marry you.” You laugh, until you realize he isn’t joking.
“What?” Your voice pitches to an incredulous squeak.
“Marry you,” he repeats.
“Why, though?”
“I always wanted to get married,” Seungkwan replies, after a moment of pondering. “And if the world ends tomorrow, as of today you’d be my best candidate for marriage.”
For a moment, you just look at him, eyes tracing over his features. Your steady gaze makes him shift, uncomfortable, wondering if he said something wrong. Eventually, you shrug, though there’s a twinkle in your eye as you quirk a smile at him.
“While I don’t support shotgun marriages, I’d make an exception for you and the end of the world.”
His breath catches, heart stuttering as he tries to parse your answer in his head. “Wha—you—”
“Come on, Seungkwan, don’t dish it if you can’t take it,” you groan, flopping sideways to plop your head against the armrest. Your legs tilt as you do, your foot brushing against his calf. He tries not to jolt at the contact.
“I’m sorry!” He pouts, trying to calm the uneven fluttering of his heart. You laugh, shifting your lean in the opposite direction, so your head lands on his lap. Despite having done it a thousand times before, he traces softly the way your hair falls, admiring the way its color contrasts with the color of his pants.
(Looking back, he’ll think about how that day changed things, even just by a little bit; how his gazes grew longer, noticing more how the sunsets glowed against your face as you walked home together every day, painting you golden. How you’d both gotten used to creative ways of shelter when mild dust storms come, thanking your luck each time that you had gotten home before it truly began.
He’ll think about how, a year from that day, he kissed you as he walked you home for the last time before you enter your separate colleges, swallowing the teasing took you long enough from your lips as he finished his shaky confession.
He’ll think of how you exchanged second buttons like those characters from that anime you liked did, and the quiet promises to make things work even as the world seems to turn more barren than both of you can follow.
He’ll think of how three years from then, he gets on one knee, to your tearful yes and salty kisses. Your small marriage, with just your families, batchmates, and some professors, followed by a beautiful honeymoon in Jeju. Despite it all.
None of these decisions had anything to do with the end of the world, but you and Seungkwan made them, nonetheless.)
D-9
INT. A TENT – A TRAIN STATION SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SEOUL AND MOKPO – NIGHT
The footage is grainy due to the lack of proper lighting; the camera shakes as Seungkwan seems to be trying to balance it on something. The tent is quite cramped; the inside is sparse, with only two sleeping bags and your knapsacks—Seungkwan’s with two camping pans attached with a carabiner.
The leather jacket you were wearing is now resting on one of the bags. You have both swapped your sturdy day pants for more comfortable, albeit worn, sweatpants.
Out of context, it looks like a vlog filmed by two campers on a hike.
The camera steadies as Seungkwan moves away. He moves to sit beside you. There is an easy intimacy as you thread your fingers together, almost mindlessly.
SEUNGKWAN
BOO-log number 531. We passed by a sign that said Nonsan. That means we’re probably halfway there.
YOU
We made progress better than expected, didn’t we? I estimated at least two weeks.
SEUNGKWAN
(nodding, excited)
I thought the train tracks would have been ruined, since the stations are, but they’re surprisingly reliable.
YOU
It’s true; of course there were times when we had to find our way around the tracks, or climb above anything that fell down over it, or go through some cornfields, but mostly, it seems we’ve been lucky.
SEUNGKWAN
By the way—everyone, it looks like we’re in a tent in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t it? Don’t be fooled, we set this up in a convenience store.
YOU
(laughing)
You ruined it! Now we can’t be funky backpackers with a tent on the train tracks.
SEUNGKWAN
(playfully lecturing)
It’s good to be truthful, you know. What if kids watch this someday? We have to be good moral people.
YOU
(with the remnants of a laugh)
Okay, okay. We set this up in the Seven Eleven inside one of the train stations. Abandoned, obviously. We made it in right before the dust storm hit.
SEUNGKWAN
Another good news today is that we managed to barter something for food.
YOU
Yeah. This one engineer or something—I think he’s a veteran? But we saw him tinkering on his porch and offered a trade, his corn for our cables, and now we have dinner.
SEUNGKWAN
(joking)
It’s not jokbal, but it’ll do, I suppose.
YOU
(groaning)
Oh my God, what I’d give for some jokbal right now. With bossam. And soju.
SEUNGKWAN
I’ll be dreaming of that tonight.
YOU
Anyway, everyone, we’ll end the log here, so we have enough batteries for a nice long BOO-log at Mokpo.
Both you and Seungkwan wave your corn (dinner) at the camera. You reach forward, covering the lens with your palm. The clip ends.
D–20
Seungkwan walks around the house. He’s doing his last checks, checking between what’s in his bag and what’s in the rooms to parse if he’s missed anything—batteries, your wallets, matches, passports, birth certificates, first aid kit, water bottles, toothbrushes, all the canned food in the pantry, the sturdiest kitchen knife you both owned (wrapped in two layers of cloth), the Swiss knife he was gifted a few years back, flashlights, a whistle, and all the carabiners and hard cash you had were already packed.
He finds you in your shared bedroom. There are a bunch of wires there, evidently cut from various appliances. You’ve wrapped the cables as neatly as you could manage. On the bed, you’ve laid all your dry-fit shirts and the sturdiest pairs of pants you both have. Then, from the dresser, you’ve collected the most expensive jewelry the both of you own—well, all of them, but you separated the expensive ones in another pile. He points to the latter.
“What’s that for?”
“If cash fails, maybe gold won’t. I don’t know, just in case the currency collapses. But they’re worth bringing all the same.” Also, you hold out copies of both your health insurances. He opens his knapsack and quickly stuffs them in the same place as your other documents.
“Last resort kindling?” Seungkwan offers, showing the cluster of documents in his compartment. The remark draws a quick breath of a laugh from you.
“Probably.”
“How about the wires?”
“You never know when we’ll need some emergency engineer bullshit; plus, if it comes to it, the wires will probably be better barter material. Before you ask,” you hold up one hand, “I edited a zombie novel a few years back. But if that kid was pulling out of his ass, we’re fucked.”
Despite your disclaimer, the no-nonsense, matter-of-fact way you’re handling the situation makes something settle in him, as though all he needed was an anchor amid the chaos. He pulls you close, placing a kiss to your temple. The tension in your body melts as you press against him. For a moment, Seungkwan just holds you. A temporary anchor before you need to move.
Turning to him, you offer a quick peck to his lips before holding up his trusted camera bag, worn as it is. “Bring it,” you tell him firmly. “We need a little bit of happiness. Get all the SD cards you have, too. In case we just never leave Mokpo. It’s small enough to stuff in our pockets.”
Seungkwan can’t help it; he grabs your face and kisses you. The camera bag sits between you awkwardly, but he doesn’t care. He savors this, the familiar taste of it, the contours of your face that his hands have long since memorized. You pull away, but not before kissing his lips again, then his nose. He’ll never quite get used to the way you look at him, as though there is something new to love each time.
“We’re gonna be okay, my heart.”
D-4
EXT – A LONG STRETCH OF BEACH – MOKPO, SOUTH KOREA – SUNSET
The camera captures a breathtaking sunset. The sky is a wash of oranges and pinks, the clouds purple yet lined in the light of the sun. Mokpo is on the southwest side of Korea; the view of the sunset is particularly beautiful, as the sun sinks down into the sea. There are faint silhouettes of islands both near and far from the shore. The waters are tranquil, and there are no sounds except for the steady wash of the waves on the shore.
The shot slowly pans to you. Your expression is tranquil, despite the dirt and tears across your clothes.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(soft, so soft you don’t hear)
Pretty.
YOU
(clueless)
Hm?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Nothing. Can you see Jeju Island from here?
He already knows where it is.
YOU
(laughing softly, a little sad)
To be honest, I don’t know which piece of land I’m seeing is Jeju.
A finger appears at the edge of the screen.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
There, that’s Jeju. Right behind the blob that looks like a hat.
YOU
(squinting)
Oh! Right, that’s what it looks like.
Beat.
YOU (CONT’D)
The view is beautiful. It’s been so long since I’ve seen the sea.
Seungkwan hums the opening to Tears of Mokpo. You don’t recognize it until he softly begins to sing the opening lyrics.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(singing)
사공의 뱃노래 가물거리면…
YOU
(laughing outright)
That doesn’t have anything to do with Jeju!
He sings louder just to spite you. You playfully roll your eyes. Bending down, you unlace your boots and take off your socks, sinking your bare feet into the sand with barely-concealed relish. Seungkwan stops singing as he knows what you’re about to do.
SEUNGKWAN
Careful; don’t step on anything sharp.
As you move forward, the camera follows you. It is revealed that the beach is not so picturesque. The sea seems to have dried up some, and even here, bits and bobs of life float on the surface and linger in the sand.
There are the usual culprits: plastic bags, empty cans of alcohol and soda, and snack wrappers. Yet visible also on the camera are the following: bullet shells, shrapnel, a chair leg, a ragged pillow, and a cracked desktop monitor.
As all this is visible, the camera centers on you laughing, splashing in the saltwater and enjoying the breeze in your hair.
YOU
(calling; audio faint)
Seungkwannie! Come here!
A beat. The camera zooms in on your face.
YOU
Kwan-ah, come on! Hurry up!
SEUNGKWAN
(proximity makes his voice loud)
Okay!
A rustle. The camera is laid down, cloth (Seungkwan’s jacket) obscuring part of the footage. After a nudge, the cloth disappears from frame. Another figure, barefoot, joins you.
D–119
Jeju has officially been declared abandoned, lost for some other country to use as farmland. The radio announced the treaty ratification today. Seungkwan is a spectre around the house, listless and heartbroken.
Months ago, when the conflict began to escalate in earnest, he began whatever arrangements he could to ensure his family was safe, moving them as near to the farming areas as he could manage and encouraging them to share whatever techniques they knew could help former cities now learning how to farm. The news does not make the sharp pang of grief dull any less.
He is at the age when he is to receive a conscription notice; Korea has since shifted its system to split soldiers into those who will either fight on the front lines of the Resource Wars, or serve by tilling the land and ensuring that there is enough corn for the population, however dwindling. There is no guarantee on which one he is to get, even if he did register himself as head of household (and should hypothetically be assigned the latter), but he is due to receive news in a few months’ time.
The promise of the notice hangs over both your heads. In the mornings, you spend ten more minutes just looking at him, as though you were memorizing the shapes and contours of his features. At night, he curls into you more tightly than before; once you’d have complained that it was too hot, now, you simply wrap your arms around him and let him sink his face into your hair.
“Hey, Seungkwannie.”
“Mm?”
“Let’s go on a trip.” The hand mindlessly running through your hair falters.
He pulls away, looking at you with a furrowed brow. You keep your head low, pressed against his chest. “What?”
“Let’s go south. Yeosu, Mokpo, whatever, just near the beach, as close as possible to Jeju. Just…just see it, even from afar.” At his silence, you barrel on. “If we walk enough, we can make it in two weeks—a week if we can hitch a ride with one of those crop trucks or something—and then just another two weeks back, if we don’t settle in Mokpo outright.”
“Food—”
“I can pack us as much as I can. We’ll need to ration, and possibly trade, but we can do it. The treaty is in place, and it’s most dangerous up north right now. Going south isn’t as big of a risk, and the weather has been looking good lately.” Finally looking up, you cup his cheek, tracing the skin with your thumb. He presses his lips to your wrist.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to, my heart. I just thought you might want to say goodbye.”
“I…” he falters. It’s tempting. Unbearably so, despite the nagging at the back of his head that it would be better to leave it at that, keep his memory limited to the days you spent there dodging dust storms and falling in love. He doesn’t know how much it’s changed. How much the ocean might have even dried up. He doesn’t know if he can stomach to see it. “Give me a few days to think about it?”
“Of course. All the time you need.”
D+29
Seungkwan’s life has been demarcated into two. Before, and after. He goes through the motions of the government-run fields: waking up, clocking in, eating breakfast, tilling the soil, weeding, lunch, the occasional drills in case they were still expected to fight, transporting corn from one warehouse to another, dinner, sleep. Repeat.
Not a lot of people are here; many prefer to till fields they own, or collectively own; for once, agrarian reform straightened itself out at the start of the Blight. Yet with the dwindling population—slowly withering family trees—those lands acquired by the government grew.
Sometimes, Seungkwan thinks of home. He was lucky enough that the head of the center, Seungcheol, was kind enough to register his name as part of the deployed cadets under his supervision, despite the incomplete paperwork he had when he stumbled into his field, frail and dehydrated from lack of food and water.
Home remains now only in his memory, and in every replay of the Christmases he captured on camera. The soil is more unforgiving than before; it distracts from the loneliness.
EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY
The wedding is humbly decorated with dried corn leaves fashioned into flowers, as there are no real ones anymore (none within the budget, anyway). Guests came as they are, though everyone has made an effort to clean up more than usual.
It is currently the reception, and the speakers are playing a quick beat. The guests are dancing, laughing, and cheering, though their movements are blurry and almost smeared onscreen (step-printing effect). In the middle of it, you stand, the only still figure in the frame. You’re smiling softly to someone behind the camera, very clearly in love.
Cut to Seungkwan, in a similar position, the guests around him dancing as but blurs. He is wearing a similar expression. He begins to walk forward.
You meet in the middle, still the only clear figures on-camera, and begin to dance.
As though the dance were a spell, the surroundings cut to:
INT. A MEDIUM-SIZED LIVING ROOM – NIGHT
EXT. SEOUL STATION, IN RUINS – DAY
INT. YOUR TENT (MAGICALLY ENLARGED) – NIGHT
EXT. LONG STRETCH OF BEACH (UNPOLLUTED) – MOKPO – SUNSET
Hold this image for a moment. The sea laps at your ankles. The bottom of both your garments brushes against the saltwater, but neither of you seem to notice. Both you and Seungkwan close the gap to meet in a tender kiss.
Suddenly, cheers. You part, and are back to:
EXT. A SMALL FIELD, WEDDING VENUE – DAY
The newly-married couple smiles and waves. The bottoms of their garments are damp.
D+167
It seems surreal to have all the batteries he wants, and even a computer where he can replay all his footage—more than 4000 hours’ worth of it. It took a few months of work to earn enough credits and rank to access it, but Seungkwan pursued the goal with single-minded purpose. There is enough electricity in this center to run a few computers, and Seungkwan is its most regular customer, painstakingly going through each clip on the dozens of SD cards he has.
For footage so far back, from when you had just been married, there are parts where he no longer remembers what happened after the clips end. They remain in his memory as but colored ghosts, warm-tinged with nostalgia. Cabinets that would never be opened again, now filled, in his dreams, with infinities.
The house of his memories blurs with the house of his oneirism. In both, he subsists on sleep and daydreams. But memory will betray; it won’t tell him if the house he remembers has been altered by each remembrance. So he watches his videos. He walks through his house, now only alive in film and reconstructed by memory. He sees himself and he sees you, in all the different iterations you both were. Wonders if he could stitch both into narrative. Wonders if he could even bear to cut any scenes. He’s never thought about the violence of that act until now.
Inventories do not just catalogue possession; they also measure the potential of loss. It was a quote from one of your writing workshops, discussed over a late dinner. You could still afford some meat then; Seungkwan had saved just enough for a small slab of cured pork, which you would cut tiny pieces from for both of you to enjoy before bed.
He has five minutes left of his designated slot with the computer.
Seungkwan watches, and he catalogues.
D=0
Seungkwan only remembers in flashes—a gunshot. A scream. It’s only when he replays that moment in his mind that he realizes it was his voice. Barely a thud as your body is cushioned by the corn leaves. Dark red liquid, somehow both grainy and slippery on his hands as he drags you into the thick of the field, away from the path, trying desperately to stem the blood while minimizing your trail. Until finally, he collapses, feet unable to bring him a step further.
More flashes—your eyes, only ever kind. Even at your last moments. The way you hold his hand and place it over the pocket you keep his SD cards, as though reminding him one last time. The way your eyes search his face, first desperate, and then resigned. The way he leaned in when you opened your mouth, to hear your final words, only to feel the ghost of chapped lips brush against his ear. The gush of blood that dribbles past your mouth that tells him you’re gone.
(The Resource Wars felt like more a backdrop than anything else; you had come this far without any altercation. Yet even as you screamed that you were not thieves, just travellers, the gunshot rang.
The cornfields weep with him as he leaves you behind, SD cards clutched in his bloody hand.)
D–4
TIME CUT TO:
It is twilight, now.
The camera is trained on the horizon. The sun has fully set, and night is beginning to settle in the sky. Only the barest hints of orange remain. The footage has already become slightly grainy due to the lighting.
Neither you nor Seungkwan are on the camera. Instead, voices are heard while the darkness arrives. It is not evident whether the footage was taken accidentally, or on purpose.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(softly)
I’m glad we came. Really, even if we couldn’t get to Jeju. I’m glad. I’m glad it’s with you.
YOU (O.S.)
(just as softly)
I’m glad too, my heart. You filmed the whole sunset, didn’t you? Start to finish?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Yeah. Yesterday and today. I have so much footage that I don’t know what to do with.
Breath.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S., CONT’D)
Actually, that goes for all the BOO-logs. Even the ones from high school and college.
YOU (O.S.)
(surprised)
You never tried editing them?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
I have, but what then? There are hardly any theaters now. Nowhere else to post. And electricity is expensive.
YOU (O.S.)
Okay, but if we both die, what do you think’s gonna happen to this camera?
Seungkwan is many things; a prideful badminton player (before the Wars stopped sports events), a videographer, casual vlogger, and a corn field worker.
You are also many things; an editor (before your company closed from too little employees), author, copywriter, and occasional tiller.
Both of you still enjoy nurturing sparks of creativity when they come.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Mm. someone picks it up and it gets immortalized in a post-war museum. And our videos will be a special feature.
YOU (O.S.)
Oooh. And the war museum would be on a spaceship, with funky gravity and new plants and meat the astronauts domesticated from a different planet.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
And there’s a new jokbal. Call that out of this world delicious.
YOU
Stop!
Despite the terrible joke, you both laugh, then let the conversation drift into comfortable silence. The sun has fully set. Nothing much can be discerned visually from the footage.
YOU (O.S., CONT’D)
Hey, Seungkwannie.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Mm?
YOU (O.S.)
If you had the chance, like computers and steady electricity, would you edit all the BOO-logs into a short film?
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
(skeptical, but thinks about it seriously)
What would the plot even be? A married couple traveling to Mokpo, dodging dust storms and chasing each other through cornfields? Watching the stars at night?
YOU (O.S.)
(earnest)
Yeah! Or, y’know, make it semi-autobiographic, like two lovers wanting to visit where they first had their honeymoon. Or maybe I’m sick and you want to take me to the sea one last time? The footage earlier could fit with that storyline.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Don’t even say that!
YOU (O.S.)
(laughing softly, apologetic)
Sorry, sorry. But if you do make a short film, I want to be the first to see it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you work.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
What about you, then? Would you write a book about us?
YOU (O.S.)
Oh, definitely. And you’d be the first to read it.
The footage cuts.
D+182
Seungkwan replays the footage. Beside him, Vernon fiddles with a pen.
“What do you think about making this a short film?” Seungkwan asks.
Vernon stops.
Seungkwan may be their newest addition, but the rest of the crew has grown protective. He brings light to their conversations, effortless in his ability to entertain and bring laughter. Mingyu asks him of his favorite foods, especially the ones he misses from Jeju, even if recreating them is near impossible. Seungcheol reprimands anyone who tries to bully him into giving up his share of rations. Junhui has begun to joke more, noticing how Seungkwan seems to be particularly into his humor.
Yet everyone recognizes the sadness that still clings to his heels.
Vernon looks, for a long moment, at the monitor, frozen with a picture of a smiling face he’s never known—never personally, only ever through the screen and Seungkwan’s stories, always shared in quiet whispers in the privacy of his room.
He knows, though. Knows that this person was real. They loved, and were loved. It speaks in how the camera follows whoever is in the frame. The cuts of certain clips, as though either the person behind the camera joined their partner or had a moment that could not be captured in film. Most of all, it was the way whoever was in the frame would, without fail, smile at the person behind it.
“I think,” he replies, choosing his words deliberately, “that you are in a unique position to dictate how someone is to be remembered by those who never knew them. And…” he hesitates, wondering if two months of these quiet conversations is still too little to be so candid with his friend, especially when talking of loss.
So, so much loss.
Seungkwan answers that question for him. “It’s okay, Vernon-ah.”
“…Well, I just wanted to say that it’s a burden to bear, is all.”
EXT – A CORNFIELD UNDER THE STARS – NIGHTTIME
The stars have emerged, visible in all their glory. After the start of the Blight, when the population began to dwindle, electricity and many other resources became scarce. Much of the light pollution that was once a problem has disappeared. Brilliant dots twinkle overhead. To you and Seungkwan, it could pass for the Milky Way.
The POV seems to be at a low point; stalks of corn are visible at the edges of the frame. Yet the stars are bright, captured exceedingly well.
You’re softly speaking aloud Laura Gilpin’s The Two-Headed Calf. It was one of the poems you memorized in college, as a creative writing major.
YOU (O.S.)
(as though from far away)
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
Long beat.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
Twice as many stars as usual…let’s look up together.
YOU (O.S.)
I see the stars, my heart, but I’m tired…
A breath hangs in the air. Some rustle of cloth, as though someone had adjusted so you fit together. A soft sigh.
YOU (O.S.)
Good night, Seungkwannie.
SEUNGKWAN (O.S.)
…Good night, darling.
End.
note. are the screenplay bits from the short film? the raw sd card clips? his memories? distorted memories? guess we'll never know. nonlinear bc grief is nonlinear. pls tell me your thoughts (even/esp if u didn't get the story lol) take care of yourselves always <3 EDIT: here are annotations of this fic for anyone willing to indulge 1.1k of my meta
VIV WHEN I CATCH YOU. i've always been a little too scared to read this because it just looked like it would tear me up on the inside. however today i committed and can confirm: i will never ever ever be the same.
i think this is and will always be one of the best fics i've ever had the honour of reading. viv, you have a talent that brings your readers to life: breathing trembling things that burn their way into your mind forever.
^ "love of seungkwan's life" being a defining characteristic struck me so hard on the second read through. it's so simply stated and i think that makes it all the more powerful.
^ IMAGERY GOES CRAZY. these lines feel like a memory forming in real-time. there's a softness and a warmth and a haziness to them that show us, already, that they have their own world. a shift from habit to affection so deep it overwhelms.
^ the undercurrent of hope!!!! the UNDERCURRENT OF HOPE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
genuinely i think time stopped moving when i read this part. the realistic awkward touch of the camera bag!!! the last line in particular. im going to throw myself off a cliff GOODBYE FOREVER! this entire fic reminds me SO MUCH of below excerpt from george sand's letter to gustave flaubert. (full collection found here, i have not read it all LMAO, but this one is specifically 27 june 1870)
^ GOODBYE. i love the way this line kind of just slips in. the same way it slips out of seungkwan's mouth -- it's so natural. he doesn't say it to be heard it's literally a thought SO full of tenderness it barely makes it past his lips.
^ they are so in LOVE. no matter what, they remain so in love.
^ i think this part really hits on how memory and loss live side by side. and it's SO worth noting the way you weave time and memory together -- it's stunning. nothing’s linear, yet it all makes sense, and all the foreshadowing and all of the fragments falling into place as the story unfolds is both satisfying but Painful. the soil metaphor too... it’s almost easier for seungkwan to focus on that harshness than the ache of being alone. the contrast with the next cut being to the WEDDING i cannot do this goodbye!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
^ excuse the colour change i did not realise while writing. BUT. the way you write here is so poetic without ever feeling forced or overdone. it's such a beautiful metaphor for how memory works --not as a clear, sharp thing, but as ghosts, soft and a little mysterious. the past is both vivid and blurry at the same time, so full of warmth but also unreachable, and that makes it HURTTTT. and the cabinet filled in his dreams with infinities..... who told you this was OKAY. it’s such a beautiful painful contrast between the finality forced on them and endless possibility of what they could have hadjlhgodfhg
(😂🔫) i knew it was coming the first time, and i definitely knew it was coming the second time. it doesn't make a difference. the emotion your words evoke is overwhelming.
the writing is delicate but full of rawness -- there’s a softness to it even in such a devastating scene (the SD CARDGHIDOFGI;D), but it’s also sharp, and it cuts straight through you. like a knife. or multiple knives. at once. i hate you im crying again
first of all im never forgiving u for this i think my heart was just ripped out of my chest. second of all your exploration of grief and memory is so stunning and so skilled. the memory of someone not just as a collection of facts or images, but as a living presence shaped by how we hold them in memory and how we remmeber them aloud to those around us. JSVL;UFL.HLVD;B IM IN SO MUCH PAAAIN there's so much hesitation and quiet honesty in the dialogue and it feels so genuine im breaking down sorry . anyway
"you are in a unique position to dictate how someone is to be remembered" -- it’s such a delicate burden. the writing doesn’t flinch from that responsibility. "so, so much loss." just four words, but you feel them like a punch. many punches.
THE NOISE I MAD WHEN I FIRST READ THIS VIVVVVVVVV. im wailing btw. this is one of my favourite poems ever and i just. my brain rebooted i dont have words. this poem is already laced with this idea of ephemeral fleeting beauty and like. inevitable tragedy. it fits so seamlessly. SO seamlessly.
so ive just cried my eyes out for about half an hour.
viv you have so much talent im staggering under the weight of what i just read but in the best way possible. the way you use memory like a medium, by layering past and present is so clever, so well done and so so heartwrenchingly beautiful. and the CAMERA. it's such a good tool to power the whole story onwards. it’s like love itself guides the lens, making every smile and every look and every cut proof that this person was here, real and deeply known. it just adds so many layers to the story, give us so much of a glimpse into the people you've created -- because they don't feel like characters, they feel like real living breathing things in front of me, and you've conjured a love between them that is bone-deep.
and GRIEF. (my god am i grieving.) you don’t just tell us seungkwan’s grief; you let us feel it. and even if you know what's going to happen, it doesn't stop it from taking your breath away. grief isn’t loud here --but a constant hum in the background of everything, always there, always present. in everything: the tenderness of a hand placed over a pocket. the way the camera lingers, not just on faces, but on the space between them, the places they've been. and in those D+ excerpts, you can viscerally feel the absence growing larger than the frame can hold.
he carries the grief. he holds in careful hands: memory folding into muscle memory. and it's so accurate to how grief truly is. you walk with it. you carry it like seungkwan does: in your breath, in your bones. it leaves you wrecked, but never empty.
the call back to the two-headed calf at the end feels like a thread pulling everything together, so so gently. that's the part that made me cry the most. it's the kind of poem that understands exactly what this fic understands: that brief, beautiful lives are not diminished by their brevity. that something can be strange and sad and still full of love.
𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: basketball player!Soonyoung x college dj reader
𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: fluff, angst, 90s au
𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: PG-13
𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: cursing, talks of tough family dynamics, bit of heavy angst, kissing
𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.8k
𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: You could easily name 10 things that you hate about him. But when you bond over music and families, you realize there's more to him than meets the surface.
𝐀𝐍: This was not an easy fic. It took me way longer than I planned to write, and the story I had mapped out went in a different direction. I still feel proud of this one, my longest fic yet, and I hope that you will enjoy it too 🥹 This is a part of my very own Now That's 90's collab hosted by me and @mingsolo. Thank you to @wooahaeproductions for reading this over and @hobeemin for making a banner for me at the last minute 💙
“Thank you for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s your song of the week?”
“Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve!”
“You got it! Thanks for calling into C.A.R.A.T radio at 526 AM.”
Hitting play on the record, the orchestra's melody hits your ears, sending you into an out-of-body experience, your soul floating to cloud nine. The hairs on the back of your neck stand every time the song is played, and you imagine yourself playing the violin, getting lost in the beautiful and complicated sinfonia.
Working at the college radio station was your life. It’s the only place to lose yourself to TLC, Nirvana, and Weezer for hours without judgment. You are in your 3rd year of college, getting your bachelor’s in music theory so you can be one of the most prominent songwriters in the world. While everyone in high school didn’t know what they would be doing with their life, you always imagined yourself getting a Grammy for Song of the Year on stage. That is your real passion: creating musical poetry for the masses.
You slowly take the headphones off and set them down, looking at the big clock plastered on the wall. You let out a heavy sigh, sad that your time at the station is ending. You are allotted two hours a day on Saturday as a part of credit for your program. If you had it your way, you would be here daily, listening to your favorite records and writing songs between commercial breaks.
“Hey,” your professor Kim calls out from her office. “Come in here before you leave.”
You gather your things to leave, looking at the station one last time before entering the smaller space. This isn’t her regular office, but it has everything you think you would need: a desk, a comfortable chair, and bookshelves full of books and ornaments for decoration. You have spent a lot of time in here, pitching new ideas for the station and getting turned down every single time.
“What's up?” You sit in the chair opposite of her.
“So we will be introducing a new segment to the radio where callers can call in and ask for advice about anything, and then you can recommend a song based on what they are calling in about.” She pauses to take a sip of water. “I want you to be a part of it.”
You don’t answer right away. You are peeved that Professor Kim wants you to head any segment. You have never shown any initiative to want to talk to anyone who calls in besides listening to music. It’s just not your thing. You are a loner at heart, and that’s how you plan to stay.
“Why me?” You finally speak up. “There are other people who are better at this than I am. Hell, ask Emily. She has been foaming at the mouth to talk about anything other than music.”
“Because you are who I want,” she shrugs. “I see how you look when you talk about your favorite releases. You go deep with the lyrics and how you can relate that to any part of your life. You are more than the person behind the voice, and it’s time other people see that.”
“Well, I am not trying to be the next Oprah or Ricki Lake,” you scoff. I just want to play music, write my songs, and do whatever I need to do for the class.”
“No one said you would be the next talk show anything,” Professor Kim retorted. “This will be considered a project, and it’s worth 20% of your grade. Plus, when you are in the industry and have sessions with the artists about the song's lyrics, don’t you need to talk to them about their life and what they need? Think about that.”
You nod, feeling defeated because you know you can’t talk your way out of this. You know she is right, but you will never admit it.
“Plus, it’ll be a good idea to get out of your shell and work on those social skills,” she says. “We will start in a couple of weeks, so get your mind ready because before you know it, you will be there.”
You nod and leave the office, your stomach grumbling loudly as you put your headphones on and listen to the latest Backstreet Boys release. It’s a quarter past seven, and dusk officially sets in the sky as you walk across campus. Working at the radio station is the highlight of your week, as you can’t play music loud at your dorm without others complaining. Fortunately, your dorm is set where you have your own space, but the walls are thin, and you can hear everything. You considered buying noise-canceling foam to cover your door but were told it was “against” the rules. Whatever.
Your stomach rumbles again, and you are determined to get a burger and fries in your stomach and drink an Oreo milkshake. You cross the street, open your bag, and grab your wallet before being met with a screeching halt from a car in front of you, its headlights blaring in your eyes.
“What the fuck?” You mouth at the driver.
The driver pokes his head out the window, and you instantly recognize him as Soonyoung, the star point guard of the basketball team. His black Jeep is crowded, full of guys and girls, with Usher blasting through the speakers.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” he waves.
“Yeah, no shit,” you retort, walking to the end before the car pulls off.
Jeers and boos could be heard, but you could care less. People like that always get in your way no matter what. You avoid people like that as much as people, as you don’t want to be mixed in with that crowd. Soonyoung will eventually go pro and live the NBA life, whereas you will be on the stage accepting awards, with millions of people cheering your name.
The segment started as planned, and you sat and listened to every caller asking for advice. Most of them wanted advice on how to ask someone out for a date, makeup, and things you didn’t care about. The only thing that made it worth it was you got to pick the music to go with the advice, which allowed you to show off your taste in music, from Britney Spears to Mandy Moore, Usher, Sugar Ray, etc. It made the time go by faster as well. You look through the glass, and Professor Kim gives you a thumbs up to take the last call. Letting out a sigh of relief, you let the call ring a few times before you answer.
“Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s on your mind?”
“H-hello?” a tenured male voice booms through the speakers. You groan, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.
“You’ve reached C.A.R.A.T radio! What’s on your mind?”
“Hey. You can use this line to ask for advice, right?”
“Yep,” you say, a bit annoyed. “Whatcha got?”
There is a lengthy pause, your fingers tapping dramatically on the soundboard. You raise an eyebrow at the professor, who shrugs and walks out of your view. You hear shuffling in the background, followed by what sounds like something being sipped from a cup.
“S-sorry, I am a bit nervous,” he apologizes. “It’s my first time calling in.”
“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “I know how it is. How can I help?”
“So I already have this path carved out for me by my family and everyone who cares about me. Sports is all I have known all my life, and I have worked very hard to get here.” He stops for a brief second. “Everyone expects me to act like this all-star college boy, and no one ever talks to me about anything else than sports, and I am starting to hate it.”
“Do you mind telling me what kind of sports you’re in?”
“I play ball.”
“Okay, that's good. Well, what is it that you want?”
“I’m tired of being what everyone wants me to be: this golden retriever everyone loves. I just want to be me.”
You understood how he felt. Maybe not in sports, but people pushing you to be something you’re not. You come from a family of doctors and lawyers who expected you to be the same. “Get good grades so you can get into an Ivy League school” is all you heard growing up. When you were seven, you expressed interest in music, sitting in front of the family piano on Christmas and playing Jingle Bells, which you learned on your own. Your parents cared for a while, putting you in piano lessons and taking you all over the state for recitals. They figured if you kept this up until high school, it would look good on college applications, but nothing that they took you seriously for.
It wasn’t until you learned how to play the guitar in secret that you fell in love with how the strings strummed against your fingers that you realized that your passion is music. Thanks to your choir teacher, you had a good voice and kept it in tune while practicing writing music. You soon sang in front of the school, getting high praise from people all over for your voice and how you would “make it big one day.” Your parents insisted that it was just a phase and that eventually you would become a doctor and make a “real” living. You were determined to prove them wrong by applying to one of the best music schools and getting in on a full ride. You did that, but it came with a cost: being cut off by everyone in your family but your grandparents. They believed in you from the beginning and made sure you were okay. You will pay them back in tenfold one day.
“Hello?” the deep voice cut through your thoughts.
“Y-yeah, sorry,” you snap back into focus. “Do you want my advice?”
“Yeah, I do,” you hear him clear your throat.
‘I think you should be who you want to be. It may feel a little different at first, but eventually, you will be happier being yourself.”
“I mean…” he pauses for another second. “How do I go about that? How do I show people the real me?”
“Hmm,” you think out loud. “Why don’t you try easing into it? Start a random conversation about something you are interested in that no one knows about. Gauge their reactions, and if they treat you weirdly, then start making new friends. It might be a little harder with your family, but they will come around. But either way, it’s exhausting having to hide yourself at the time. It’s the 90s and a new era!”
“Yeah,” he says slowly. I’ll try that. Thanks.”
“No problem!” You say. “Check out this song that’ll hopefully speak to your heart. This is me signing off on CARAT Radio, 800am.”
You played “You Gotta Be” by Des’ree, a personal favorite, closing out the end of your segment. Admittedly, it wasn't as bad as you thought it would be. Sure, some questions were annoying, but it allowed you to pass on music to people and help them get over whatever. You can’t call that a total loss. You push the mic to the side and leave the room, checking in with your professor before leaving.
“Great job,” she leaned back into her seat. “You were well-spoken and composed, and the music selections were excellent. Have you thought about being a radio DJ?”
“NO! you snort. “I want to be more behind the scenes, writing songs and getting Grammys.”
“Okay, okay,” Professor Kim chuckles. “But don’t rule it out. You are a natural at it.”
You nod and head out the door with a small smile. Getting complimented about your work feels good, but you rule out being a radio DJ. You deal with people if you have to, but you prefer to have time for yourself a lot of times. You’re just introverted like that. However, that last call was in the back of your mind. You just want to live and succeed at your dream job. It was nice knowing someone out there felt the same way you did.
Before you knew it, a few weeks had passed, and you had secretly liked doing the segment every Saturday, talking to people from different backgrounds and listening to their troubles. You had a song for every call, and you bragged to your professor at the end of your shift that you had impeccable taste. The analytics showed that more people were tuning in during your segment than at any other time on the radio. Not gonna lie; it stroked your ego quite a bit.
The mystery guy called in on Saturdays, ironically being caller #17 every time. He would call and ask for advice about getting his grades up, coming out of his comfort zone, trying new things, etc. You got to know him a little, see how he solves problems, and see his sense of humor. You have no idea what he looked like, but you imagined he was just your type, like a Keanu Reeves, Theo Mizuhara, or Merlin Santana. Is it crazy that you sometimes daydream about a man you never met?
Today was the last day of the advice segment, and everyone called in with their usual advice and well wishes. Like clockwork, the mystery guy was caller #17. His breathing was labored when you answered, followed by a clunk of metal hitting the floor.
“Welcome to C.A.R.A.T radio. You are lucky caller number 17. What’s your damage?”
“H-hey.”
You know it was him; the sound of his voice was familiar to you. You shift in your seat, sitting straight and placing your elbows on the desk. You try to keep a poker face, your professor watching you with curious eyes.
“Hey there,” you clear your throat. “How can I help?”
“I heard today is the last day to ask for advice,” he says. “I can’t say I won’t miss calling and hearing your voice every Saturday.”
“Oh yeah?” you chuckle. “ That’s good to know. Well, what is the last piece of advice that I can give you?”
“So, there is this girl,” he starts. “I really like her. She’s cute, a bit of a hard ass, and I really like her mind. She’s not like anyone that I’ve met. How do I ask her out?”
“Does she know you exist?”
“Yeah. I almost ran into her once, but we talked a lot.”
“Ah. Do you think she might like you?”
“I-I’m not sure,” he stutters. “We get along and everything and we have some things in common. I just don’t know if she would be into me.”
“Okay, well, it wouldn’t hurt to ask her out? The worst that can happen is that she says no; at least you’d know.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m nervous as hell, that’s all. Have you dated anyone before?”
You are taken aback, your professor raising her eyebrows through the glass. You nod, licking your lips before responding.
“I’ve dated here and there,” you say slyly. “It wasn't anything serious. What about you?”
‘Um, yeah, I have,” he snorts.
“Well, there you go then, tiger.” You’re clearly entertained by this conversation. “Remember how you felt when you asked the other girls out, and apply that same confidence to this girl. You never know. She might say yes.”
“Okay, I will take your word for it. Thank you.”
“Not a problem!” You beam. “Here is the last song I leave you with: ’ 4-page letter’ by Aaliyah. Have a good night, ya’ll.”
You play the final track of the night, setting down the headphones while Professor Kim claps her hands in applause. You roll your eyes playfully, pushing your chair onto the desk and exiting the booth. You feel light as a feather, dopamine taking over your body as you meet your professor in her office.
“Great job,” she smiles. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Maybe,” you plop down on a chair. “It was fun giving out music suggestions.”
“Mhmm,” she nods. “Well, get out there and enjoy your Saturday. I will see you in class on Friday.”
You grab your things and leave the station, your stomach rumbling and your mouth parched. It’s after 8, and the nearest thing open is the local pizza joint with the best pepperoni pizza with the cheesiest cheese you’ve ever had. You go there often, and the owners, Dante and Gabriella, get your order ready before you sit down. “The usual?” they always ask, knowing that you are a creature of habit. Aside from your grandparents, they were the closest thing to family to you, always making sure your pizza was hot and crispy with a tall cup of Coke to go with it. They asked about your studies, and Gabriella always asked when you’d get a boyfriend.
“Ah, stop it, amore mio,” Dante jokingly shushes her. “She has all her life to find the love of her life.”
More people started coming in, and they left you to your food and your walkman. You gleefully put Parmesan cheese over your pizza, taking the first bite and feeling instant gratification. A slice of heaven, literally. You take your headphones on, listening to Kurt Cobain croon on Nirvana’s Something In The Way. The “Nevermind” album got you through some tough times, especially when your family cut off communication with you. It hurt you and made you feel isolated and misunderstood. On the outside, your mom and dad put on this persona of being open-minded and willing to do anything for the family. Why were you the exception?
You feel the tears well up, and you get yourself together before people start to notice, eating the rest of your pizza before you call it a night. You look around, seeing people on dates or hanging out with their friends, and you miss that. You had friends back home, but you all split up before you went to college. Who knows what their lives are like now. It’s not like you are visiting home anyway.
You clean up your mess and walk into the bathroom, relieving yourself and washing your hands before returning to your dorm. You looked at yourself in the mirror: your jean jacket covered your black button-up shirt, shorts, and stockings underneath. Your eyes were slightly red, a contrast from your fresh face. Stifling a yawn, you leave and wave goodbye to Dante, opening the side door and bumping into someone in the process. You look up, facing Soonyoung, his cheerful eyes meeting yours.
“We gotta stop meeting like this,” you mutter, backing up and adjusting your jacket.
“Yeah, we shouldn’t,” he responds, opening the door to let you out.
Your head snaps up, half expecting him to not hear you. You rake your fingers through your hair, walking out of the restaurant. He’s a handsome guy, you can admit that, with his fresh, faded haircut and trendy clothes. You get why he is popular with everyone.
“I’m sorry for almost hitting you with my car the other day,” he calls out.
“It’s alright,” you turn around. “Just don’t make it a habit.”
“Alright.”
He chuckles and goes inside, and you speed walk to your dorm. Did I just flirt with him? You think to yourself. What the fuck was that? You aren’t even interested in Soonyoung in that way. You two are the two opposites of each other. You’re clearly losing your mind.
The cool air calms you down, and the slight breeze underneath the moonlight keeps you at bay until you get to your building. It’s Saturday night, and everyone’s out; the only sound being heard is your boots hitting the tiled floor as you walk down the hallway to your dorm. Unlocking your door, you notice an envelope tucked underneath it. You sit on the bed, open it, and pull out a letter.
I know this isn't a four-page letter, but I like you. You’re funny, have good jams, and are down to earth. Did I say that you’re cute? I like talking to you every Saturday and don’t want it to stop.
I want to take you out to a concert on Friday. I’ll pick you up at 4 at your dorm. I know you've said yes if you’re there when I arrive. —Caller #17
“What do you think of this?”
Your former roommate and good friend, Nikki Prince, holds up a black leather jacket in your size. You asked her to go shopping with you for an outfit for tomorrow's impending date, and you needed another set of eyes. She majors in architecture and design but models on the side thanks to her striking looks. A tall, tanned skin and green-eyed beauty, she now lives with her much older chef boyfriend, Caelan, but whenever you need her, she’s always there. She’s French, stylish, and brutally honest. You loved that about her.
“I dig that,” you take it from her and try it on. It fits you just right. It would be chilly, so you bought new boots, a white shirt, and black jean shorts to wear with black stockings underneath. You wanted to be comfortable as you would be on your feet all night.
“Are you sure about this date?” Nikki’s foreign accent comes through. “How do you know this guy isn’t some serial killer? We’ve all seen Scream.”
“Gee, thanks, mom,” you roll your eyes. “If he tries anything with me, I’ll just show him the moves I learned from the YMCA.”
“I’m serious. This is risque for you, no?”
You shrug, slowly taking off the jacket and heading to the cashier. “I get your point, and if anything happens, I can defend myself. But I have a feeling that it won’t happen.” You greet the cashier and pay for the jacket. “I’ll call you before I leave and tell you about it the next day. Deal?”
Nikki nods, and you both walk out of the store, satisfied with what you bought. The mall is busy for a Thursday night, with young adults frolicking at stores like Rave and Wet Seal, looking for the latest fashion trends. The mall isn’t really your scene, as you prefer to thrift shop for your clothes. You have been lucky to find some hidden gems there, especially since you are on a limited budget. Nikki, however, said it was a special occasion, and you quote, “You are not going on a date in someone else’s vêtements.”
You stop at Auntie Anne’s, buying a massive pretzel with cheese on the side, while Nikki opts for a small lemonade. You offer her a piece, which she declines, saying her boyfriend, Caelan, will make her dinner later.
“How is that going, by the way?” You sit down at a table.
“It’s going good,” she enthuses, raking her fingers through her long black tresses. “He’s so mature and sophisticated. Imagine not having to cook and clean after a man and have good sex.”
“Well, yeah, he’s about six years older,” you remark. "He better know a thing or two if he wants to keep his model.”
Nikki gloats as you finish your pretzel, talking about the elaborate French dishes her boyfriend makes for her and how he worships the ground she walks on. Since you’ve known her, she has always been opinionated and refused to associate with people within your age group. Whenever you see her in the hallways, she always talks with teachers or ignores the lustful looks of college boys. You two got on well because you were roommates, and both were Scorpio risings. You understood each other.
“Oh shoot, I better head back to the flat,” Nikki says, looking at her watch. Caelan is going to be home soon, and he is making steak frites tonight.”
“Yeah, I gotta head to the dorm anyway. Early class tomorrow.”
You walk out of the mall into the chilly night air. She offers you a ride home, and you decline at first, saying that you will walk as it's pretty close. But a slight wind blows, bringing chills down your spine.
“Wait,” you shout after her. “I’ll take that ride.”
The ride was short and quiet, your mind occupied with your date with this mystery stranger. Nikki was right, you don’t know him, and he could be this crazy guy. But you’re also excited; the butterflies haven’t left your stomach since Saturday. You feel like you know him, and you don’t even know his name. He is just caller #17.
She pulls up to your building, and you hug her, preparing to run inside and shower. You know Nikki is still worried and means well, even if she sometimes acts like an overbearing old sister.
“Come over tomorrow at two if you can,” you announce. “You can help me get ready and meet my date in case anything goes crazy.”
“Alright,” Nikki seems relieved. “I’ll be there.”
You shut the door and shout your goodbyes before sprinting inside.
“Love you!”
“Yeah, yeah!”
The next day went fast, like a blur. You slept past your alarm and woke up after twelve, making you two hours late.
“Fuck, fuck, FUCK,” you shout as you scrambled out of bed and tripped over a blanket. You throw on a pair of jeans and an oversized sweater from the University, your hair in a wild ponytail as you brush your teeth and high-tailed it out the door. You ran to class, forming an apology along the way, your heart beating out of your chest. You are met, however, with a closed door and a white paper plastered on the door:
NO CLASS TODAY. ENJOY YOUR WEEKEND.
“Really?” You huffed, leaning against the wall. It’s not like you are late for class; your alarm was
set despite you being up late last night. But whatever, fuck it. You aren’t about to let this ruin your day.
The leaves flow softly with the wind as you walk back to your dorm, the sun playing hide and seek in the clouds. All you can think about is tonight and what concert you are going to. Maybe it’s a huge concert, and that’s why he is picking you up early… or perhaps it’s a local indie band at a bar. Your mind runs with endless possibilities, excitement pumping through your veins. You aren’t a hopeless romantic or a love-at-first-sight kind of person, but something about this person makes you feel good… like you finally have someone who can relate to you on some level. Granted, you have only talked with him on the phone, but you have a gut feeling and are rarely wrong about these things.
You finally return to your dorm and take a well-needed shower, washing and detangling your hair with much-needed privacy. Your dorm has shared showers; you usually take them when everyone is asleep at night. Fortunately, there were only a few people, allowing you to have time for yourself. You allow yourself to think of the water running down your body as him, his hands caressing your body, his lips maybe touching yours—
“Is anyone in here?”
You snap out of your daydream quickly, and the water turns cold right on queue.
“Y-yeah?”
“I am here to clean the showers,” a woman’s voice calls from the door.
“O-okay, give me a second.”
Cursing silently, you quickly step out and dry yourself, throwing on your robe and grabbing your shower caddy before exiting the bathroom. You are met by an older woman wearing a shirt representing your college and sweats, with cleaning supplies in tow.
“You were in there for a while,” she remarks as she sets out the wet floor sign. Do you have a hot date tonight?”
“Something like that,” you shrug.
You walk back to your room, and to your surprise, Nikki is outside your door.
“You’re early,” you remark, unlocking the door.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “But we will need more than two hours to get yourself right.”
“You act like I can’t dress myself,” you scoff. “I just wanted your company, that’s all.”
“Oh yeah? Mon ami, when was the last time you changed your makeup?”
You open your mouth to rebuttal but close it immediately. You hate to say it, but Nikki’s right. It’s not like you are going anywhere besides school, the music store, and the pizzeria.
“Exactly,” Nikki says, setting her stuff down on her bed. “I went and got you makeup close to your teint, just in case.”
She pulls out brand-new makeup from Revlon from mascaras, concealers, powders, and assortments of lipsticks of my choosing. She also bought nail polishes, saying it was time to add some color to your life. As much as you want to roll your eyes at her, she is right. As harsh as Nikki seems sometimes, she has a big heart and always looks out for you when you least expect it. You know a thing or two about style, but she takes it to a whole different level and isn’t shy about giving advice on it. You appreciate her so much.
Being honest with yourself, you are nervous as hell. You have had crushes before, but you have never been pursued like this, where someone likes you enough to ask you out formerly, even if it was via a note. This person cares about your mind or seems to. You aren’t sure how to feel; you want to be excited and have a good time, but you have a wall up for a reason. You don’t want to be disappointed again like your family has. You figured if the people you love the most can abandon you like that, there is no hope for you out there. You lived with that hard truth for a long time, and you were content with that. But god, this guy has you curious.
“What’s on your mind?”
Nikki finishes with your makeup and hair, gazing at you through the mirror.
“Butterflies in my stomach are killing me,” you grimace. “I can’t believe I am even doing this.”
“Oh, relax,” she blows a raspberry. “You always do this thing where you talk yourself out of things you deserve. Stop that. D'accord?
“Yes, mother,” you tease.
She sucks her teeth, and you get dressed, putting on the new clothes you bought and your black leather boots. Checking out your appearance, you are satisfied with your look, and Nikki gives you a thumbs up while she cleans up.
Knock, Knock!
You look at the door, the butterflies fluttering deeper in your stomach. You look in the mirror one last time as Nikki opens the door, a brief silence followed by a hearty chuckle.
“Mon ami, your date is here.”
You see him, and you're stunned. It dawns on you why he’s here, and you feel your heart drop all the way to your ass. This has to be some kind of joke.
“Soonyoung? What are you doing here?”
He walks more into your view, wearing a grey jean jacket with matching pants. His right hand is in his pocket, and he has a small bouquet of irises in his other hand.
“I’m here to take you to the concert?”
Nikki is behind him, trying to keep her composure and mask her giggles. Of all the people you thought would show up, Soonyoung was the LAST person on your mind. This is the person who was calling in every Friday and wanting to talk to you? Yeah fucking right.
“What happened?” you accost him. “Did you lose some bet, and you had to ask me out? Or do you feel bad for almost hitting me with your car?”
“No?!” he scoffs, clearly offended. “I mean, yes, I feel bad about almost hitting, but no one dared me to do anything. Do you think I am that kind of person?”
“Well, yes.”
You wish you could take back what you said, but it was too late. You knew you hurt his feelings, the crestfallen look on his face saying it all.
“This was a mistake,” he sighs dejectedly. “Sorry, I wasted your time.”
He handed Nikki the flowers and walked away, the air feeling thick and awkward. You couldn’t even look at her in the eyes. You knew you fucked up.
“Well, that was awkward,” you huff.
“And shitty.”
You raise an eyebrow at her, and she stares you down. You don’t want to feel worse than you already do, and Nikki isn’t helping.
“Honestly, I think the guy was telling the truth,” Nikki surmises. “He looked like a sad puppy.”
You think about this caller #17 guy who would call in every week and share his thoughts with you about everything, with you having to do very little. You think about how scared he felt about being his true, authentic self and how much courage it probably took to ask you out. You know you are a tough cookie to crack and understand better than anyone how it feels to go against the grain and be who you are.
“I fucked up Nik,” you slump on your bed.
“Yeah, you did.”
God, you hate her bluntness sometimes, but she’s right. You need to go find him and make this right.
“Do you think he’s still here?” you ask, sitting up and grabbing your purse. “He couldn’t have left that fast.”
“Only way to find out is to get off your ass and find him,” she says, pulling your arm. “Go find your guy.”
You both rush out of your dorm, jogging down the hallway and out of the building, looking for a silhouette of him. You were scared you missed him and felt defeated, not seeing any sight of him anywhere. Surveying the area one last time, you noticed a black Jeep peeling out of the parking lot. It stops at the stop sign, the second to last car to go. This is your only chance.
“WAIT!”
You sprint towards the car, barely meeting him as he is about to turn.
“STOP,” you exhale, relieved that you caught him. “Don’t go.”
Soonyoung steps out as you rest your hands on the hood of his car, trying to catch your breath. He touches your arm, his hands soft as silk, sending shocks throughout your body.
“Are you okay?” He asks, taking a good look at you.
“Aside from me about to pass out, I’m good.” You take a deep breath. “Listen. I’m sorry. I was a jerk and an asshole and—”
“MOVING YOUR FUCKING CAR!”
A middle-aged woman leans out of the window and gives you the bird, followed by a slew of car horns beeping in annoyance behind you and Soonyoung.
“Fuck,” Soonyoung curses, realizing the amount of cars behind him. “Get in the car.”
You both get in the car and drive off from the angry drivers, pulling into the nearest gas station. You sit with your hands in your lap, this weight of regret sitting on your chest and guilt eating you from the inside. You look at him, and he seems surprisingly relaxed as if you didn’t reject him
not even thirty minutes ago.
“I’m going to get some gas,” he announces. “Wait here.”
You watch him walk inside to pay and let out the deepest, most agonizing sigh. He should be calling you every name in the book, and rightfully so, as you insulted him. Why is he being so nice? Does he really like you that much?
He returns a few minutes later, shoving his pockets with change left over, and you both lock eyes with each other. In another situation, you would’ve been able to appreciate his good looks, trendy clothes, and tiger-like appearance. But instead, you feel sick to your stomach, disappointed in how you acted. You look down, twiddling your thumbs until he finishes pumping his gas and returning to the car. This is not like you at all.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi,” you stammer. “I’m sorry again. I feel like a terrible person, and I shouldn’t have bit your head off like that.”
“I know you were intense, but Jesus Christ,” he exhaled. “Why do you think I wouldn’t be interested in you? You made it seem like I lost a bet to ask you out. You made me feel like crap.”
Every word felt like a punch in the gut, and you deserved it. Despite your parents' many flaws, they always taught you not to judge a book by its cover, and that’s precisely what you did. You were pretentious and stuck up about him. In some ways, you aren’t any different from them.
“I guess…” your voice trails off. “I just saw you as the athlete that everyone is in love with. Your friends, I know the type, and we’ve never really crossed paths with each other unless I was bumping into you or almost getting hit by your car.”
“So… you saw me as the very thing I told you I didn’t want to be seen as.”
You didn’t have to answer back. You both knew the answer, and it was eating you up inside.
“I’m sorry, I am just gonna go.”
Before he could stop you, you exited the Jeep and started walking back toward your dorm. You are embarrassed and can never face him again. This is why you don’t don’t talk to anyone. This is awkward; it feels weird. You lose yourself in your thoughts until you reach the street light, waiting for your turn to go. The air is slightly chilly than usual, the smell of the ocean taking over your senses that you would enjoy any other time. Yeah, a walk to the beach sounds nice, you say to yourself just as the street signal turns green. You feel someone’s hand pulling you away, and you twirl around, facing Soonyoung’s back as he takes you back to his car.
“You’re dramatic as hell, you know that, right?” He shouts over his shoulder. “You didn’t even let me respond; you just hopped out like you were on the run.”
You stayed silent. What more could you say? He was right. He opens the passenger side, letting you slide in and shutting the door behind you. A few seconds later, he is on your other side, turning on the ignition.
“You not a terrible person,” he breathes. “A terrible person wouldn’t come sprinting out of their doom in boots and a nice outfit trying to apologize. You said you’re sorry, and it’s fine.”
“Is it?”
“I mean, I’ll get over it,” he shrugs. “I wouldn’t have pulled you back here if I didn’t want to be around you. Now, do you still want to go back and forth about this, or do you want to make it up to me by going to this concert?”
It’s a brief moment of silence as you seriously consider your options. You can tell Soonyoung is still bothered by what you did, but his small smile clarifies your decision.
“Lead the way, tiger.”
He chuckles as he pulls out of the lot, pulling into a line of cars headed in the same direction. The sun starts to set, the golden hour hitting the horizon at the sea. You fold your arms, confused as to why he is being so nice to you, despite you being a bitch to him earlier. You haven’t felt forgiveness in a long time, which feels foreign. Uncomfortable. You hope this feeling will go away as the night goes on.
You mainly rode in silence aside from the music on the radio, and the hour trip to the venue seemed to be double that. You pull up to Bayfront Amphitheater, packed to the brim with people screaming their hearts out to the band onstage. Your heart skips in excitement, realizing what concert Soonyoung took you to.
“The Foo Fighters?” you grin, unbuckling your seatbelt. “I’ve been wanting to see them forever."
“Yeah, I remember you were talking about it on the radio, so I figured why not,” his voice trails off.
Your heart feels like it is going to burst at the seams. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for you, and you had the nerve to be a bitch to him earlier.
“Hey,” you clear your throat. “I’m sorry again. I feel really shitty about it.”
“I know,” he says. “Look, let’s just enjoy this concert, and I’ll forget about it, okay?”
You nod, walking towards the loud music. The rhythm of the drums and guitar blended together, hyping the crowd. You let Soonyoung lead the way, checking your tickets and guiding you to your seats. The crowd is thick, with the smell of cigarettes and alcohol flowing freely, and everyone is caught in their own zone. You wouldn’t say you are claustrophobic, but being packed like sardines isn’t your definition of a good time. Soonyoung notices your discomfort and grabs your hand, holding tight until he finds your assigned seats. You felt safe with him, a tiny spark in you that made you swoon.
“Are you okay?” He shouts over the noise. “Do you want a beer or anything?”
“Nah, I’m good,” you shake your head.
The opening act finishes their set, the crowd politely cheering as the members walk off the stage. There is a small intermission, with people disbursing from their seats to grab drinks or making quick trips to the bathroom. You can feel Soonyoung looking at you, his eyes burning into the left side of your face. You lick your lips and pull strands of your hair to the back of your ear, a blatant attempt at flirting.
“Are you gonna stare at me all night?” You feel bold, turning your body towards him.
“I might,” he purrs. “I have a beautiful, mysterious girl sitting beside me.”
“I’m not that mysterious. We’ve been talking for weeks.”
‘Yeah, in front of thousands of people on the radio. Now I have you all to myself, and I want to get to know the real you.”
“Uh huh,” you nod. “Well, I’m always the same on and off air. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.”
He smiles at you, and gotta admit the man can flirt. Soonyoung is devastatingly handsome, and he’s quick with his words. It excites you. You like being around people you can banter with and not take shit personally. It takes a load off your shoulders, not having to hold yourself back every time. You just want to be you and be free. It feels like Soonyoung is chasing the same thing.
“I wouldn’t have predicted you’d be into rock bands like the Foo Fighters. What made you want to go to their concert aside from me?”
“Well, you might be surprised to hear this, but I actually like the band,” he laughs. “I’ve been following them since their debut.”
“Really?” you say. “That’s cool.”
“What?” Soonyoung leans closer, your shoulder barely touching his. “Do I not seem like the Foo Fighters type?”
“Aht aht,” you playfully wave your finger at him. “I’m not getting tripped up on that question.”
You fell into a rhythm of laughter that felt natural as if you had been doing this all your life. Despite your fuck up, he makes you feel cozy and open. The sun makes one final appearance, shining its glorious light on his beautiful, tanned skin. You can fully admit to yourself that he’s handsome as fuck, taking him all in before the sun dips below the horizon.
“No, but seriously, I don’t seem like the type to be into them?”
You pause before responding, being careful with your answer. “On the surface, no. But I am learning that there is more to a person than meets the eye.”
There is a comfortable silence between you two, the sweet-smelling breeze keeping you at bay as you sit and enjoy each other’s company. You have so much you want to say but don’t simultaneously. You savor this tiny bit of peace with him.
“I think I am gonna grab a drink,” Soonyoung gets up suddenly. “Do you want anything?”
“Yeah, like a juice or something.”
You watch him leave, checking out his ass as he stands in the concessions line. Nice and firm, definitely a football player’s ass. You look away before being caught, watching the crew prepare for the next act. You feel like a young girl who just realized you have a crush on a boy. You’re giddy inside, hypersensitive to everything around you and how you look. You hope he finds you as attractive as he says he does, or if not, keep up the lie a little longer. You’ve been dealt many disappointments in your life, and you can’t let this be one of them.
“Here. I got you a lemonade.”
You gaze up at Soonyoung, carefully grabbing the cup from his hand. He has a cup of beer in the other, sipping before making a face. You laugh in your cup, tasting your sweet drink with some tart. You feel refreshed and a little bit alive, thanks to him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, who’s ready for the FOO FIGHTERS?”
The crowd erupts into a roar as the band joins the stage, getting their placements to perform. Jolts of electric excitement course throughout your body, screaming your heart out before the first string is played on the guitar. You’ve always wanted to see them in concert, being a huge fan of Nirvana and following Dave Grohl after. Despite everything, he seems like a rad guy, and
if you ever had the opportunity, you would want to pick his brain and jam out with him.
“ARE YOU MUTHAFUCKERS READY?” Dave Grohl shouts into the mic.
You both scream as the first song is played, the drums scratching the excellent part of your brain while the guitars take you to another level. You look at Soonyoung, his attention on the band with his arms folded, in awe of the performance being given. He looks adorable, and all you can do is smile, satisfied that you are in this space and can experience this moment. The band keeps playing hit after hit, the energy around you making you want to levitate in the clouds. You haven’t been this happy in a long time.
You reach the last song of the night, and the key changes, the guitars riffing into a song you know all too well.
“I want everyone to sing this song with us— this is for the regular heroes out there.”
You feel the emotion and intensity in Dave Grohl’s voice, making you emotional. The song is about the ordinary person and their potential; you wish your family saw your potential. You wish you could share your music with them and see you thrive in the elements you’re most comfortable in. But instead, you’ve been cast out, and as much as you worked hard to get over it, it hurts you deeply.
“Are you okay?”
Soonyoung looks at you wide-eyed; you’re unaware of the tears trickling down your face. All you want to do is be held and told everything will be okay. As if he read your mind, he holds your hand, his thumb rubbing your palm softly, keeping you anchored in your emotional storm. Nothing else needed to be said between you two; the song lyrics moved your spirit.
Kudos, my hero
Leavin' all the mess
You know my hero
The one that's on
There goes my hero
Watch him as he goes
There goes my hero
He's ordinary
“Thank you for taking me to the concert. I had a really good time.”
You sit with Soonyoung in his car, sitting outside of your dorm. You talked about music all the
way back home, singling your hearts out to whatever is on the radio. Soonyoung is surprisingly a good singer, hitting some notes even better than you can. You wonder if he had any training.
“I’m glad I was able to make it up to you,” he grins.
“Oh, please,” you wave him off. I’m the one who started us on the wrong foot.”
“True. But I think you more than made up for it tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah,” you roll your eyes playfully.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why were you crying during the concert?”
You knew this question would come eventually, but you still felt unprepared. You hadn’t really talked about your family life with anyone besides Nikki, but you were determined to keep it to yourself. But he makes you want to open up.
“The song really hits me,” you point at your chest. “I feel every word and every percussion note as it plays. It reminds me of my mom and dad, and I wish they saw me as a normal person with their own aspirations rather than the person they want me to be.
It was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop. Soonyoung nodded his head, understanding what you were saying.
“My parents wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer, and I just don’t see myself doing that. I fell in love with music and singing, and when I shared that I wanted to do songwriting full-time, they made me feel so low. Like I am stupid and naive for wanting a career in this. I would actually be happy.”
You huff, wiping fresh tears off of your face. “I just wanted them to support me, but they couldn’t even do that. Aside from my grandparents, they cut me off completely.”
“That’s not cool,” Soonyoung scoffs. “So they just went cold turkey and quit talking to you?”
You nod, bitterly reliving the last conversation you had with them before you made no contact.
“Why can’t our parents just let us live the lives we want? It’s like they want to live vicariously through us.”
“Right?!” You exclaim. “See, you get it!”
“Unfortunately, yeah,” he mumbled.
You turn your body to look at him, studying his face and the possible thoughts he is having. You may see more eye to eye than you realize.
‘So, what’s your damage?” You poke at him.
“It’s the same as yours,” he revealed. “They just want me to keep playing basketball so I can go into the big leagues and take care of everyone. I am essentially everyone’s meal ticket.”
“Well, you don’t have to be,” you say. “You could just say fuck ‘em and live for yourself.”
“Easier said than done,” he sighs. “I’m the first person in my family to attend college, and I actually like playing basketball. I believe in it, bleed it, all that… but whenever I am around my folks or friends, that’s all they want me to be about it. It’s like I’m not real. I am a person with complex interests and feelings, too.”
“I know exactly what you mean, tiger.”
You smile reassuringly; you understand that last sentence all too well. Your family would rather consider you the family fuck up, the black sheep, instead of understanding that you wanted different things. Why is that so fucking complicated? You stifle a yawn, looking at your watch and seeing how late it was.
“I really like talking to you and being around you,” Soonyoung confesses. I hope we can do it more.”
“Yeah,” you gaze into his eyes. “ I would love that.”
He walks you to your dorm, opens the doors, and holds your waist as you walk up the steps. His hands bring jitters and butterflies in your stomach that you hope you can experience more. You know you have a hard, cold exterior on the outside, but deep down, you want to feel love and adoration from someone. You hope Soonyoung can bring that.
You never want this feeling to go away.
“Thank you for walking me in,” you say, unlocking the keys to your room. “I know I was being a bitch early, but thank you for showing me a good time anyway.”
“It was worth it, seeing a smile on your face.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah,” he leans in closer. “I want to see it more.”
His lips touch yours, your chest bursting like fireworks as he deepens the kiss. Your arms rest on his shoulders, feeling natural and comfortable like a glove. He is gentle and kind, not doing too much but making you feel safe and like you can depend on him. It's crazy how one kiss can have you seeing your future.
“We should do that more often,” you joke, leaving one last peck.
He chuckles, pulling you into a hug.
“We will. I’ll make sure to do it more often.”
“Okay,” you say, walking into your dorm. “I’ll hold you to it.”
AERIS i was going through ur masterlist deciding where to start and ended up on this one and i LOVEEDDD it.
reader being a college dj made her such an interesting character from the beginning, but even outside of that, i loved her character growth!! she starts off kind of tightly wound but she really loosens up in a really lovely gradual way with your writing, not just with soonyoung but even during her new segment on the radio. you really see her move towards something more open in a subtle way and i thought it was sooo clever!!
and soonyoung!! i loved his character.... down bad from the beginning LMFAO. but i like that he wasn't just an easygoing funny guy in this story; he's a little more layered, and we find that out along with the mc. and i think both of their backgrounds and the way they related to each other gave sm depth to their connection!!!! i love messy real relatable characters. the whole fic was wonderful and immersive and so very sweet i LOVED it
٠࣪⭑ pairing: wen junhui x fem reader
٠࣪⭑ summary: your final project is due far too soon and you’re stumped for ideas. that is until you pick up a part time job in the ticket booth at your local water park and you meet the most– uh– interesting employees. this includes a wen junhui, food and beverage supervisor, whose creativity sparks most when he’s hazy and slacking off.
٠࣪⭑ genre: coworkers au. smut (eventual), fluff, crack
٠࣪⭑ rating: explicit. minors do not interact, i'll block you.
٠࣪⭑ warnings: stoner junhui, drinking, swearing, possible violations of health and safety regulations
٠࣪⭑ smut contents: catch 'em at it in part 2 (posting asap)
if you think i've forgotten anything please let me know so i can fix my post!
٠࣪⭑ wc: 11.3k
٠࣪⭑ a/n: thank u to my loves @100vern and @starlightkyeom who always chat with me about my silly little guys and read my shit before u see it. and thank you again to jewel who made the banner! ily both always
٠࣪⭑ written for: the carat bay collab, hosted by @camandemstudios! thank you both for letting me join in! please look out for the rest of the fics 💕
edit to add: my italics have disappeared after posting?? but it’s 1:40am so i’ll fix that tomorrow night because i’m picking up my puppy tomorrow morning 😭
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re going to kill Mingyu for dropping you off a whole hour early.
“I’m going to kill Mingyu,” you complain.
“It’s not his fault he has a meeting,” murmurs Soonyoung, trying not to yawn.
“You should drive us,” you say.
“Pay for my car to be fixed and I’ll think about it.”
Soonyoung said he’d introduce you to everyone this morning, but apparently you two are the first staff on site today, save for the one elderly security guy who grumbled about unlocking the gates for you on arrival, so now it’s your job to take over the staff sign-ins. Soonyoung is sitting on your desk, legs swinging below him, and grumbling about not having had time for breakfast.
“I’m gonna waste away,” he whines. “Can I have some of your banana?”
You shovel the remaining half in your mouth and Soonyoung scowls. “Sowee.”
“Dickhead.”
You grin around the banana mush and Soonyoung pushes himself off the desk.
“I’m gonna raid the snackbar– oh no, do not look at me like that. You’re not getting a thing.”
You swallow thickly, it makes a gross sound. “We get to raid the snackbar? There’s a snackbar?”
“Are you an idiot? Of course there’s a snackbar. And officially, no we don’t get to raid it, but unofficially Junhui doesn’t care.”
“What do they have?“
“Snackbar stuff, I don’t know.” Soonyoung shrugs. “Leave me alone now, I’m leaving.”
You grab at him. “Please please please can I have something bready. I need carbs or I’ll die. I need coffee. Please Soonyoung, please.”
“Ew oh my God, get off me, freak.”
Thirty minutes later, he still isn’t back, and you’ve got your head in your arms on your desk. You’re famished. You’re wasting away. You’re–
“Hi.”
You lift your head to see there’s a blonde man outside your booth. You’re stunned, is what you are. He’s maybe the prettiest man you’ve ever seen. You blink, still sleepy, and say, “Sorry, we’re not open yet.”
He blinks comically slow. “Uh– no. I work here.”
He points to the little visor with Carat Bay’s logo printed on the front, perched atop his head. Red and white. Makes him look like a Pokemon trainer.
“Oh. What’s your name?”
“I’m Jun– Junhui.” He goes to shake your hand but stops when he seemingly remembers there’s a pane of glass separating you. Oh my God, he’s cute.
You make your eyes go big. “No fucking way, dude,” you exclaim. “That’s my name too.”
You have no words to describe his expression, but you have to work hard to keep your face straight.
“Really?”
“Really. You wanna see my birth certificate?”
His eyes narrow. “Your name isn’t Jun.”
“No, it’s Jun Junhui.” The corners of your lips twitch.
“Are you new?”
“Yup,” you say. “Started yesterday.”
It’s April, and the water park adjoining the area’s most popular resort is just opening up again for the season. The only reason you got this job is because you were bullied into it by your roommates, Soonyoung and Minghyu, who would really really like it if you didn’t go into debt this time to make your share of the rent (they never listen when you tell them that’s what your student loan is there for) and both of whom have been working here for years.
Your place is supposed to be (strictly) a student let, but Soonyoung dropped out within the first two months of university, and has since worked two jobs most of the year, and somehow fits in a lifeguarding position at Carat Bay April through October. Mingyu worked the hotel reception for a while, graduated two years ago, and now he works as the resorts’ LFTS Coordinator. Whatever that means. He’s well paid and could move into somewhere much nicer, but he says he likes the company (for some reason) and he’s saving to buy a house in a nicer part of the city, so he’ll stay so long as your landlord keeps avoiding all contact. Anyway, what’s crucial here is that they’ve forgotten what it’s like to live as a poverty stricken film student. (You’re fine, just a little broke.)
The turn of winter into spring has been marred by your lack of 1) funds, 2) social life, and 3) inspiration. You’ve got a few months before your final project is due but it’s supposed to be half done by now, and you’re struggling to find a drop of creativity. Your last attempt fell through as you were two thirds into filming thanks to your useless fuck of a partner, and you spent weeks trying to work through it by yourself before giving up entirely. There were too many plates for one person to keep spinning. Your notebooks are a mess of scratched out ideas and fragmented thoughts. It doesn’t need to be long– in fact, shorter is probably better. Quality over quantity and all that. You thumb through Mingyu’s books, love letters your grandparents wrote, Soonyoung’s softcore porn collection (why does he have them in magazine format anyway? Is he from the 80s?) and the old photographs tucked away in your parents garage for inspiration– but it doesn’t come. You had wanted something romantic, something sweet and full of feeling, but everything came to a standstill. Maybe you’re just bitter that you’ve been left to pick up the pieces of a failed start.
Maybe you’re bitter about Jiho. It was fun while it lasted, but he is precisely the reason you had your preference for crushes over relationships in the first place. It’s not your fault he slipped in during the night. It’s not that your feelings are hurt, per se. It’s more that the chance for something real wasn’t there for the taking like you’d come to think. It’s more that you’d rather have just kept it light like always, and he didn’t, and then you didn’t, and the safety net wasn’t there when you needed it. It’s something of a relief that he got himself kicked off the course when he did. You haven’t spoken since.
Back to the point– item 1 is how you end up working (just part time, you’re not as ambitious (read: insane) as your roommates) in the ticket booth at Carat Bay. You didn’t get to meet many of your coworkers yesterday, since the morning was eaten up by induction (not much to induct, you think, since all there is to do is take the money, push a few buttons, give customers their wristbands, and make sure to upsell the goggles.) and lunch was taken in a break room that was completely empty, save for a few harvest spiders and one dead wasp.
You learned quickly (from Joshua, the other ticket staff who sits across the entryway) that the shifts are long and boring, since you’ll be sitting in a single occupancy booth for four to eight hours. Apparently it’s a rush of people at opening, having barely-there interactions with most of the patrons, and they come in dribs and drabs throughout the day. Occasionally a lost kid will wander over, and you’ll get to make a call for their adult over the tannoy. Before you knew it, Mingyu was scolding Soonyoung for leaving handprints and kiss marks on your window (someone has to clean that, Soonyoung!), and it was time to go home.
“What’s your real name?” says Jun Not Junhui, leaning in through your open window to look for the name badge that you’ve forgotten to put on. He smells like your type- good weed and expensive soap.
You tell him the truth this time, since he’ll find out soon enough anyway, and he repeats it for confirmation. Twice. You roll your lips between your teeth in effort not to laugh.
“Soonyoung’s talked about you a lot,” he says, looking you over. “You don’t seem evil.”
“You should’ve seen me an hour ago,” you grin. “You run the snackbar?”
Jun blinks, surprised. “Food and Beverage Manager. Did I say that already? I didn’t feel my mouth move.”
“No,” you say. “Soonyoung mentioned you. He’s gone to the snack bar to get us breakfast.”
His eyes blow wide. Panicked, he says, “Kwon Soonyoung is in my kitchen?”
“Uh–”
“He’s using my kitchen?”
“Um–”
“Why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“Why would I say that?”
He doesn’t reply. He takes off sprinting into the park, yelling Soonyoung’s name, and as he disappears around the corner of the locker rooms, you remember that you’re supposed to check everyones’ staff ID cards. Oops.
Soonyoung walks back over a minute later, one to-go coffee stacked precariously on top of the other, and a couple of paper bags clutched in his other hand.
“I just met Jun,” you say, taking the balanced cup from him as soon as he gets to your booth. You take a sip– it tastes burned, but it’s caffeine. Anything will do.
“Yeah, I figured. I heard him screaming like a banshee and had to hide in the log flume so he didn’t see me,” he grumbles. He tosses a paper bag at you. Inside is an egg and cheese bagel. “My ass is wet.”
“You’re a lifeguard in a water park. You’re wearing board shorts. Isn’t getting wet part of the job description?”
“Not before nine AM.”
“Thought you said he didn’t mind people raiding the kitchen?” You take a bite of your bagel. It’s– uh. It’s edible.
Soonyoung smiles mischievously. “Well yeah, so long as he’s there to supervise. He doesn’t like anyone touching his precious fridge magnets.”
“He didn’t seem like a manager.”
“He’s full of surprises, that one.”
You’re interrupted by the sound of slammed car doors and a rev of the engine as it pulls away, and a moment later, in trudge a bunch of guys in a uniform similar to Soonyoung’s. White polo shirt, pink board shorts, comically small pink visor. You want one too, why haven’t you got a visor? Soonyoung wears a white shirt too, but his has ‘LIFEGUARD’ emboldened on both sides in red. You just get the white polo, three sizes too large because it was either this or one that was clearly from unsold children’s merch stock. Nothing cute in pink, or blue like Joshua.
“Who are they?”
Soonyoung points them out left to right. “Chan, mat racing. Minghao, kiddie slide. Vernon, wave pool. Seungcheol, hot springs.” You’ve heard a lot about these guys at home.
When they get to your booth and Soonyoung starts introductions, Chan hangs back a little.
“Oh my God,” he says, wide eyed. “A woman.”
You stare at him.
“Sorry about him.” Minghao grimaces as he presses his ID against your window. “He didn’t mean that in a weird way.”
“Is there a not-weird way?” you ask, tapping his name on the ipad to mark him signed in.
“There hasn’t been a woman hire in like, eight years,” explains Seungcheol, showing his ID too. “There was a little scandal with the HR guy last season. Turns out he ran some incel subreddit and it bled into his hiring practice.”
There’s a long pause while you wait for someone– anyone– to laugh. No one does.
“You’re joking?”
“He’s been sacked. Don’t worry.”
You rag a hand over your face. “You’re telling me I’m the only woman who’s worked here in nearly a decade?”
The four men stare at you. If this were a sitcom you’d be hearing crickets.
You turn on Soonyoung, who’s trying to escape out of your booth unnoticed. Too slow.
“AH! Let go!”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that, Soonyoung?” You tighten your grip on his hair. He yelps. “Doesn’t that seem like crucial information your best friend should know before taking a job here? It does, doesn’t it?”
“I forgot, you psychopath! Best friends don’t hurt each other!”
You twist and Soonyoung falls into a squat in an effort to break free, smacking at your hand. “Men best friends tell their women best friends when they’re stepping into a testosterone fuelled snake pit.”
“Little harsh,” whistles Minghao. “The snakes are standing right here.”
“There was that one woman,” says Vernon, tongue pushed into the fat of his cheek, eyes up in thought. “The elderly one. What was her name? Jun’s cook from a few years ago?”
“The one he killed?” asks Chan.
“What?” you sputter, releasing Soonyoung, who falls backwards out the door.
“He didn’t kill her,” insists Minghao.
“She’s not even dead,” says Vernon, brow furrowed. “Jun visited her two weeks ago.”
“She had a stroke, didn’t she?” questions Seungcheol.
Minghao rolls his eyes. “It was never proven that it was Jun’s fault though.”
Is everyone working here insane?
You can hear flip flops smacking the pavement and you turn to look– Soonyoung is running away. Fearing premature hair loss, probably. You and the guys watch him go.
“He’ll suffer later,” you reassure yourself.
“So– uh– you live with Soonyoung?” asks Seungcheol. “And the events guy?”
“Events guy?”
“Mingyu,” confirms Vernon.
Events– is that what Mingyu does? What the fuck does FSHL stand for then?
“That’s me.”
“We’re not all incels,” says Chan. “We only had one.”
Everyone turns to look at him. Minghao’s mouth is hanging open and Vernon is wide eyed and tight-lipped, trying not to laugh.
“Okaaay?”
“Well. Only one that we know of,” he blurts. “Although–”
He’s cut off as Minghao elbows him hard in the ribs.
“We’ll be seeing you then!” Seungcheol smiles. “What time is your lunch?”
“Twelve–thirty.”
“Same as me,” Vernon pipes up. “Wanna meet some of us at Sharkbait?”
“Where?”
“Jun’s place–” Vernon taps the spot on the map taped to your window. “Next to the log flume. It’s where we all take our breaks.”
Explains the empty break room. You’re not sure how safe you’ll be in Jun Not Junhui’s territory, given recent revelations, but you’re curious.
“Sure, see you then.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Sharkbait is pretty small. The exterior is pastel blue, serves what can only be described as beige food, and there’s a huge plastic shark in sunglasses and bermuda shorts riding a surfboard attached to the roof. It’s nestled amongst a bunch of other themed eateries, and the tables on the veranda outside are spilling over with people. There’s a long line of people queuing, and one bored teenager behind the counter on the left. Soonyoung is at the other end of the bar, pouring himself a drink and chewing on a peperami. He waves you over when he spots you.
“Hey,” he says, as you reach the bar. “We’re friends right?”
“I guess,” you say, shrugging. It’s been eight years, you’re stuck like glue. “Why?”
“Will you settle something for us?”
“Us?” you ask, peering over the counter, because save for the kid working the till, he’s the only one there.
Soonyoung ignores your question. “Is a waffle just a grilled pancake?”
“What?” you say, leaning on the counter and unboxing your sandwich. It’s gone all soggy and gross next to your salad.
Vernon pops his head through a hatch behind Soonyoung. He’s eating a hard-boiled egg.
“Pancakes are waffles– same ingredients, same thing, right?” says Vernon.
Your eyebrows furrow. “By that logic ice cream is just frozen flavoured butter.”
“Yeah!” shouts Vernon, pointing his egg at you. “See, she gets it.”
“Pretty sure that wasn’t her getting it,” says Soonyoung. “Pretty sure she was saying butter and ice cream are distinctly different things.”
Vernon scoffs and his eyes slide over to you. “Is that what you meant?”
You shrug, too busy inspecting your wet bread, looking for a bit that isn’t mushy. Your stomach rumbles so loud that the guys stare at you quietly for a moment.
“Agree with me and I’ll get Jun to make you a grilled cheese.”
Two cheese heavy meals in a day? Your guts might complain but your mouth certainly won't. “Sold.”
“That’s bribery,” argues Soonyoung. He turns on you. “I’ll remember this, traitor.”
Vernon laughs. “Wanna come hang out back here?”
You nod, and Vernon disappears out of view. You make your way around the bar, and follow Soonyoung through the door to the kitchen.
Jun is already starting on your grilled cheese. He’s slicing the bread and offering you a smile as you walk in and copy Vernon and Soonyoung, pulling yourself up to sit on the only counter not being used for prepping food. Jun is wearing his visor backwards, and there’s flour (powdered sugar?) dusting his nose. Cute.
“Hi Jun Junhui.”
He blinks, confused. “Sorry, it’s just Jun– not Junhui.”
Oh, so he’s easy to fuck with.
“Junnot Junhui?”
He stares at you blankly. “Call me Jun.”
“I’ll try to remember,” you say, with mock-earnest. “But Junnot is pretty cemented in there now.” You rap your knuckles on your head. “Ow.”
Jun glances at Soonyoung. “Is she always like this?”
“Yeah,” he sighs, dramatically. “She’s even worse when you get to know her. Problem is she’s actually pretty useful so you end up keeping her around.”
You grin. “I’m like a bedbug.”
Vernon frowns. “What’s great about bedbugs?”
“Huh,” you say, thinking hard. He’s got a point. You click your fingers– “A rat!”
“If I found a rat in my kitchen I’d get the traps out,” says Jun flatly, and then clarifies– “The no-kill ones. I’m not a monster.”
“Type two diabetes?” offers Vernon.
Soonyoung shakes his head. “She’s not sweet enough.”
“Dandelions,” cuts in a voice behind you, making you jump. Mingyu’s face is peeking through the hatch, he looks so out of place here, in his crisp shirt and expensive blue tie. The others go a little quiet in his presence, so you wonder how often he spends time out of his office in the resort.
“For fuck’s sake,” you groan, scowling. “Could you breathe louder so we in the land of the living know you’re coming?”
“Dandelions are perfect,” Soonyoung agrees, clicking his fingers. “Annoying, everywhere-“
“Can’t get rid of them-“ Mingyu chimes in.
“Suck a dick and die, assholes.”
A wicked grin spreads across Soonyoung’s face. “Kind of ugly until the sun comes up-“
“I’m not ugly,” you say with a petulant pout. “I’m an easy eight, nine on a good hair day.”
“Ten,” says Jun quickly. You give him a thumbs up and he smiles, casting his eyes down to focus very hard on grating cheese. You’re making him your new favourite.
“We’ve seen you drunk with your head in a toilet,” says Mingyu simply. “We’ve seen you when pneumonia bit your ass so hard you didn’t shower for nearly two weeks.”
“You smelled so baaaaad, dude,” nods Soonyoung emphatically.
You pull an affronted face. “I feel like looking like shit while having a life-threatening illness shouldn’t count against me, actually.”
“Every time you coughed you almost peed yourse–”
“Key word being almost–” you interrupt, nearly yelling. You turn to face the people you met just a few hours ago to insist– “I’ve never peed myself.”
Soonyoung laughs, delighted.
“Say something nice about dandelions or I’ll cry.”
Mingyu looks up into his big empty brain to think. “Good for bees…” he trails off.
Jun cuts in- “and for making wishes on.”
“Thanks so much, guys. Way to make a girl feel good.” You roll your eyes. “What are you here for, anyway?” you say to Mingyu. “Are you keeping tabs on me?”
Mingyu raises an eyebrow. “No,” he says, reaching through the hatch and holding out a sheet of paper for Vernon to take. “We’ve got a crew on site in two weeks, they’re filming the ads for the summer. They’ll want to–”
“Uhh, hello?” you interject. Mingyu looks at you expectantly. “Why are you paying a film crew when you literally have an in-house filmography student?”
“No offence,” he starts gently, and he does actually look like he means it. “But this might be above your pay grade. You know this is a multi-million dollar resort, right?”
“Damn. Fair enough,” you say. You didn’t realise that, actually. You knew it was nice, sure, but Jesus Christ. “Out of curiosity, what’s the budget for the filming?”
“Just the film crew?” he asks. You nod. “Sixty thousand, ish.”
You whistle, low. “Could’ve paid my rent with that.”
Mingyu laughs in a fake way.
“I’ll keep you in mind next time,” he says. “Haven’t they given you your proper uniform yet?”
You glance down at your much too-big polo shirt. “Should I be in something different?”
“You should be in blue. White means you’re first aid trained.”
“Oh shit, yeah,” you say, eyes widening. “No one wants me doing mouth to mouth, I’d be more likely to kill them.”
Vernon cackles and kicks at Jun, who ignores him.
“Yup,” agrees Mingyu. “Call in at reception at closing and we'll get Seokmin to find you the right kit.”
You nod, and with a wave to the group, he’s gone.
“Any allergies? Is there anything you don’t like?” Jun asks.
“No allergies. But a big no to beans. Texture’s weird.”
“Got it.”
Soonyoung makes to leave, his break’s over. As the door shuts behind him, the remaining three of you settle into comfortable conversation. You ask Jun and Vernon how long they’ve worked here– five and three years respectively. Vernon grew up here, like you and Soonyoung, just a different part of the city. Tutors English via Zoom as his main job, but he works the wave pool every year just for the plot, apparently. Jun got a job here during a summer trip and never left. He works in the resort kitchen during the off-season, but he prefers it out here in the park.
“Less eyes on you,” he says, drizzling something red and sticky over your sandwich. He presses the pieces together, and moves it over to the grill.
“How ominous.”
Jun smiles but doesn’t elaborate. “You’re a film student?”
“Yeah,” you say, sighing dramatically. “Until I get kicked out for failing.”
“Why are you failing?” asks Vernon, around a mouthful of fries.
Two months, three weeks, and one day left. You have nothing, nada, zilch. Stumped for ideas, inspiration, and manpower. Fuck Jiho and his absent manpower.
“Got a project due soon that I haven’t even started– well, I did start, but then my partner got kicked out of school and it was too big to keep going by myself. So now I need something new.”
“What’s the brief?”
“We’ve got a lot of creative freedom to be honest. Fiction, non-fiction– doesn’t matter. Just needs to be between twenty and thirty minutes and have a quote-unquote nostalgic feel.”
“Sounds simple enough,” says Vernon, casually.
“Uh huh,” you deadpan. “You come up with something for me then, Mr Spielberg.”
He’s biting his lip, embarrassed, while Jun laughs, plating your grilled cheese next to a much more appealing salad.
“Order up.”
“Ooh thank you, this looks way better than what I had.”
Jun eyes the box sitting next to you. “Not a difficult challenge to beat.”
“Hm, I’m not much of a cook,” you say, pausing to take a bite. Oh God. It’s spicy and sweet and cheesy. It’s the best thing you’ve ever eaten. The best thing you’ve ever eaten from a place called Sharkbait and made by a guy who smells like weed. How tragic. “This is– uh– it’s pretty good.”
Jun scoffs. “It’s really good. They won’t let me put it on the menu though.”
“Fuck those guys,” says Vernon.
Jun smiles. “Yeah. Fuck ‘em.”
You devour your lunch in record time. Jun looks pleased with himself as he rushes out the rest of the orders coming through from out front, and Vernon says his goodbyes as he heads back to the wave pool.
And then it’s just the two of you. Jun works fast and methodically. He doesn’t talk so much as listens to you yap away, but answers a question here and there, laughs at your jokes.
“Hey, how come you’re the manager if you don’t have anyone here to like– manage?”
“It’s usually just me in the kitchen ever since Marnie had an aneurysm, and Jay out front. I can handle it until high-season, and then they’ll hire a temp to see us through.”
You mull this over. “Don’t you get lonely?”
Jun shakes his head. “Everyone comes to visit me, I could use a little more alone time, actually.”
You pout. “So I shouldn’t come back for lunch tomorrow?”
Pink creeps up his neck, and he turns to busy himself tossing the fries in seasoning. “I didn’t say that.”
“Cool,” you say. “Cause I’m gonna need one of those off-menu grilled cheeses for every single shift I pick up.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
It turns out everyone who works here is a comedian and/or an idiot, as evidenced when you meet Seokmin, Front Office Manager, and the most sunshine personified dude you’ve ever met.
You turn up at the resort’s reception at closing hours, and now you know why your parents never brought you to the restaurant here for your birthday dinner all these years, because God is it expensive. It’s all marble floors, and gilded details, but in that elegant way that doesn’t throw the money in your face.
Seokmin brings you into the office and motions for you to have a seat while he calls the uniform company.
He smiles brightly as he asks them for your size, then falters.
“You only do unisex clothes?” Seokmin says into the receiver. “Don’t you do unisex for women?”
You poorly disguise your snort as a sneeze as he doesn’t appear to understand whatever the sales rep is telling him.
“Unisex is fine,” you whisper, and Seokmin smiles at you with relief.
He’s still on the phone a minute later, when Mingyu pops his head in the open door.
“Soonyoung’s got a date, I’ve had a day from hell, and you’re my only irresponsible friend,” he whispers. “Wanna come get high with me?”
“Hell yeah,” you say, jumping up as Seokmin waves you off. Wait– “Fuck you, man, who are you calling irresponsible?”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Your plug’s place isn’t far, a ten minute walk at most. On the way you talk about work, you ask questions about the people you’ve met so far, but Mingyu doesn’t know them as well as he’d like. He’s always shut in the office. You ask what his job title is again, he levels you with a look, and he tells you– LTPS. Or something. He’s in charge of like, resort events and some other really boring shit like– uh– whatever, you’ve already forgotten.
Mingyu concedes he’s buying, since he has been extra snappy lately, but that’s just on account of the extra pressure that comes with the busy season. Once he’s into the swing of summer, he settles down and he’s back to his usual loveable self.
Not long later, you’re standing in Mark’s kitchen, staring at him in disbelief.
Mingyu isn’t sure either. He tugs at your hand holding the bag, sniffs, and immediately recoils. “This smells like shit, man. Don’t you have what we usually get?”
“Frosty Flurkle is so goooood, dude,” Mark insists. “My buddy grew that!”
“Tell your buddy that the people don’t want to smoke lavender and cat vomit. Not for twenty-five a gram.”
He snatches the bag out of your hands. “Well I dunno what to tell you, this is what I’ve got.” Mark puffs out his chest. “I’m his sole dealer.”
“Hmmm.” You draw out the sound. “Maybe you should have a little think about why that is.”
Mark scoffs. “Do you want it or not?”
You look at Mingyu. He looks at you. Your last dealer moved across the country, and you can’t be bothered searching out anyone else at this time of night. Might as well take one gram, you say with your eyes, see if it’s better once it’s in your system. Would be silly to go home empty handed, you assume Mingyu says with his.
“One gram,” you say. “And we’re only paying fifteen.”
“Twenty tw–”
“Sevente–“
One hour and twenty dollars later, you feel sick to your stomach, Mingyu is clutching his head, and you set a reminder to hire an Etsy witch to curse Mark’s entire bloodline. Then you order cheese fries and fall into a restless sleep before they even arrive.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Sunday is probably the worst day to be at work. Why would you pick up a shift on a Sunday when you have so many assignments to procrastinate on? Especially this Sunday, when you’re feeling the fuzzy effects of a crappy high, an empty stomach, and a bad night’s rest.
“Woah,” says Jun upon arrival. He smells much nicer than the Foisty Flumple you had last night. Good weed and nice perfume. And pretty. God, he looks amazing. On a better day you’d flirt outrageously with him, but today is one of those days where it was an effort to wash your face, let alone put on makeup. What a cruel, awful world. “You look–”
“If you don’t say some variation of stunning, beautiful, and/or captivating, Jun Junhui, I will eat you alive.”
He grins. “Ravishing.”
Your brows pinch together and a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth.
“Interesting choice.”
“Uh huh.” Jun rubs the back of his neck. “Hungover?”
You shake your head. “Bad high.”
“Want breakfast?” he asks. You perk up at that. Literally– your face immediately feels less grey. He laughs. “Sweet or savory?”
“Sweet please,” you say, leaning closer to the window. “Just like you.”
You’ve never seen a grown man blush harder. Cute.
He’s back a little later with an iced americano and a warm croissant, filled with raspberry jam, and dusted with sugar.
“Junnot Junhui, you’re the best,” you mumble around a bite. “I could kiss you.”
“Hahahaha,” says Jun, not casually at all. “I– uh– I’d–”
“I’m joking, Romeo.” You wipe the jam from the corner of your mouth. “Settle down, I can smell your adrenaline spiking from over here.”
“Oh, yeah I knew that,” he says, running a hand through his hair in what he must think seems nonchalant and chill. It doesn’t. Your grin is akin to the Cheshire Cat.
“I don’t kiss people at work,” you say. And then, meeting his eyes, “You’ll have to take me on a date if you’d like one from me.”
Jun’s adams apple bobs in his throat.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
You’re having lunch at the snackbar again, and this time it’s so rammed full with staff on their breaks, it takes Jun a little while to get around to handing over your sandwich. He goes silent when he works, only stopping to break the chaos with a sharp yell, anytime someone messes with the cat magnets on his fridge. You like watching him– his arms while he chops vegetables, the way his little muscles flex when he’s carrying a heavy box, the movement of his fingers when he’s sprinkling seasoning over a pan.
Jeonghan, who works the big slide, grins at you with sparkling eyes. You can sense his evil nature bubbling beneath that angelic facade– that’s best friend material. “You know you’re practically drooling, right?”
You pat your stomach. “Really hungry.”
“For the food or for Jun?”
You push your tongue into the fat of your cheek. “Both.”
Jun makes his way through the people crowding his station, plate held high above his head. He’s smiling lovely when he reaches you, and pushes the plate into your hands.
“Thanks, Junhui, you’re so sexy.” He’s immediately bright red, and Soonyoung throws a wet cloth at you. It smacks off your collar and drips dishwater down your shirt. “AH! Soonyoung, what the FUCK?”
“Don’t flirt with him!”
You wave at him dismissively. “I flirt with everyone.”
“You’ll corrupt my sweet, innocent, Junnot Junhui!”
Jun makes a frustrated sound. “Not you, too? How did I get this nickname?”
“You did it to yourself, sweetheart,” you say, fondly stroking his arm. It’s a feeble excuse to touch.
“You haven’t flirted with me yet,” complains Seungcheol.
You play your part and bat your eyelashes. “Oh, darling, would you like me to?”
He nods, making puppy-dog eyes and pouting. You squeeze his bicep and gasp for the drama of it. “Cheollie, have you been working out?”
Soonyoung gags, and you smirk. Jun looks down at his arms.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Despite the last experience, you are back at Mark’s. Mingyu had a particularly bad day in the office, you will do anything for the bit, and Mark has assured you that his supplier has something better.
You have your reservations, but surely nothing could be as bad as Foisty Farmyard. Surely?
It’s whatever. Mark cuts you a deal on account of your bad experience last time, and that should’ve been your first red flag. The second should’ve been that you met his supplier, Johnny, who apparently wears the jeans low enough to hang off his kneecaps and a huge, gold chain with a dollar sign unironically. But what a deal Mark cuts! Two grams for the price of one can’t be that bad.
Dear reader: it is that bad.
Mingyu greens out within ten minutes. You’re not far behind. Soonyoung comes home from his date and finds you both on the bathroom floor, rolls his eyes, and leaves you both to sort yourselves out.
In the morning, Soonyoung says that if you don’t find a witch to curse Mark, he certainly will.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
All of your new colleagues are easy to like (they’re loud, funny, sweet in their own ways), but it’s Jun who quickly becomes your favourite. Your shifts start with a sweet pastry and an iced americano, sometimes left in your booth with a note, sometimes hand delivered with a sleepy smile. You thought he was quiet, and he is, but he’s also sharp, and playful, and funny in that really cool, witty way. He shines brighter in quieter spaces, when fewer staff crowd his kitchen, and when he forgets his shyness. On the days he’s in early enough to deliver your breakfast, he’ll squeeze into your booth and take your chair while you sit on the counter, and he’ll try very hard to ignore the way you flirt with him.
You’ve been thinking about the vanilla danish he left on your desk all day, and with the way you had to skip lunch, you haven’t had a chance to thank him yet. Two minutes before your break starts is precisely when the film crew arrived on site and for some reason the office radioed through to make it your job to organise their visitor passes. There were so many of them it took up most of your break, and Joshua ended up having to bring you a neatly packaged panini from Jun to speed-eat on the floor of your booth. So with Mingyu’s meeting running over, and Soonyoung heading over to the lazy river to persuade Jihoon to come over for drinks, you rush through the park to catch Jun before he heads home.
The park is deathly quiet at this time– no patrons, no staff, no overplayed feel-good pop music playing from the speakers. From outside the snackbar looks spotless and empty, the hatch window firmly closed. It stinks, though. Jun is here, somewhere. Pushing open the door, the kitchen is just as clean as the front, but with a haze of smoke filling the room. You round the corner and find Jun laying on the floor– joint in hand, staring, unblinking, at the ceiling.
You kick his foot and he doesn’t move. “Dude, are you dead?”
“Maybe,” he chuckles. “Hey, did you know the camels in Petra have wifi?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It’s true,” he insists, laughing so hard tears stream from his bloodshot eyes. “It’s shav– it’s shaved into their neck hair.”
You laugh. “That can’t be right.”
Jun pats the floor. “Sit with me, I wanna ask you stuff.”
You roll your lips between your teeth to stop your smile spreading further, and you sink cross-legged on the floor next to him. Jun rests his hand on your shoe, little finger tracing the edge of your sock.
“Can’t stay long, Mingyu’s driving us home,” you say, plucking the joint from his hand and taking a drag. “Holy shit, this is good. You wouldn’t believe the crap we picked up last.”
“Mhm, yeah it’s pretty nice.” Jun looks pleased with himself. “You live far?”
“That’s your question? Borrrrring.”
Jun turns to smile up at you, lazy and slow, with dark half-lidded eyes. God, he’s hot.
“No. I know where Soonyoung lives. And you live with Soonyoung.”
“You’ve been to our place?”
“Just once. You weren’t there. I’d have remembered.”
There are butterflies in your stomach. You let them swirl.
“Ask me something better, then.”
Jun stares at you. Quietly, he says, “I can’t think straight.”
His little finger brushes your ankle, pretty mouth parted, and looking like there are too many thoughts behind his eyes. Can’t sort through them, probably, on account of the weed fogging his brain, but it’s nicer to imagine it’s because of you. The silence hangs, so quiet you can almost hear the cogs turning.
You take another drag before offering up the joint above his mouth– your fingers brush his lips as you place the joint between them as he takes a hit. The softness of them is really fucking with you. Boys' lips shouldn’t be that soft. You should ask him what lip balm he uses.
It’s like this, quiet, and soft, and hazy for a little while, the joint getting shorter and shorter as you pass it back and forth. Your body goes liquid and heavy and Jun laughs along with you when you get the giggles over the feeling of his lips brushing your fingertips again. Feels weirdly intimate for sitting on the floor of an industrial kitchen.
“Question.”
“Hit me.”
“Have you–” A long pause. If he weren't looking directly at you you’d think he’d fallen asleep. “You ever been to the Galapagos Islands?”
“Uh,” you cough. “No.”
“Damn. I wanna know what the big heads feel like.”
“Probably really hard.”
Jun chews on his lip. “Yeah.”
Your phone is ringing. Feels like a million miles away. Mingyu’s name is on the screen, and you know you need to answer, but you’re high as shit and he’ll only give you grief for smoking at work. Something something unprofessional. Something something irresponsible. Something something hypocritical. You don’t want to hear it. You let it ring off, wait for a moment, and send him a text.
Me: hanging out with jun. i’ll get the bus
Gyu: You sure?
Me: yeah, won’t be long <3
Before you forget you look up the time for the bus– there aren’t many at this time of day– and set an alarm so you’ll make it to the bus stop in time.
Gyu: Be good. Don’t kill the guy
Me: would never kill the guy i have a big fat crush on
Gyu: 🙄 you have big fat crushes on everyone
“I’ve got one,” you say, leaning back against the dishwasher. Jun turns on his side to look at you properly. “What did you wanna be when you were a kid?”
The corners of his lips twitch. “Promise not to laugh at me?” You smile and shake your head, you’d never promise such a thing. Jun laughs, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment. “I wanted– oh God. I wanted to be Jackie Chan.”
“An actor?”
“No, like actually him.” Jun is the first to start laughing, full body shakes, his hands fly up to cover his face, and you’re near silent with laughter just watching him. It’s not even that funny, but he is. “I wanted– I wanted to like.. morph into his body or something. I wanted become actual Jackie Chan.”
The silence you fall into is easy. There’s nothing left to smoke and the feeling sets in, a soft buzz in your body, heavy arms, heavy eyes. This is so nice.
“Got ‘nother one,” Jun says, after a little while. “What was your project about? The one you dropped.”
It’s hard to explain. “S’about how, like– like how crushes are better than the real thing, y’know?” Just looking at him, you can tell he doesn’t get it. “Like when you get a crush, and it’s fuzzy and silly and exciting, and everything about them feels electric. And you think they’re the best person you’ve ever met, and your stomach is in knots wondering what they think about you. And your imagination runs wild wondering how they like to kiss.”
Jun is staring at your lips. Your breath hitches. There are flashes of Jiho in your mind’s eye. It’s not like you loved him or anything, it was just turning into something a little more than like. Him in the morning, sleepy and soft, texting other girls. Him fresh out of the shower– water in his hair and running down his neck, snapping a selfie in the mirror to use on Tinder– then slipping back into bed just to get annoyed that he couldn’t make you come. More likely that you wouldn’t fake it for him. Whatever. A ‘red-flag’, your friends had called him. It’s okay. A walking reminder of why crushes reign supreme. It’s really okay, you weren’t in deep enough for it to matter.
“But six months later it’s real, and you can touch, but they don’t get you off like you’d hoped, you know? And you don’t like the way they kiss as much as you did in your imagination. And they don’t always say the right thing. They’re always competing with the imaginary version you made up of them, and you’re fighting something invisible to be seen as enough.”
“You keep saying ‘you know’,” he says carefully. “But this sounds like a unique experience.”
The silence hangs between you.
“Was it about you? You prefer limerence over the real thing?”
Yes and no. It’s not that you prefer limerence as such, but nothing you’ve experienced yet has been better than the feeling of almost. If the real thing ever lived up to the make believe in your head you’d snatch it up in a heartbeat. The trouble is that it feels rare, only meant for a few and not the many.
“Crushes are easier to come by,” you say. “It isn’t like that for you?”
Jun shakes his head. “I hardly ever like anyone. No projections when I do, though.”
You gawk at him. “Wah, what a life. What’s that like?”
“Pretty good,” Jun says, smile spreading crooked across his lovely face. His hand isn’t draped across your ankle anymore, it rests by his side on the tile floor, and you miss the weight of it. “Easier than whatever the fuck you’re doing. Your way would give me anxiety.”
You nudge him in the side. “Oh, is your way going well for you, then?”
Jun stretches his arms out, pushes himself up to sit, and says, “I’m still single; so not that well, no.”
Your alarm goes off, and when you say you’ve got to get going, he almost looks a little disappointed. You push yourself off the ground and turn.
“Are my shorts covered in dirt?”
Jun eyes you with suspicion. “Are you trying to get me to look at your ass?”
“Obviously.” You peek at him over your shoulder. “Is it working?”
“You’re not slick,” Jun scoffs lightly, and tips his head back against the cupboard, exposing the long line of his neck. It’d be nice to kiss him there. You pout at him, make moments like these light so you can play pretend in this crush a little longer. He laughs, and his eyes flicker down. “Dust yourself off a little– there, now you’re good.”
“Thanks, pal.”
“You’re welcome, amigo.”
“See you later, alligator.”
“In a while, crocodile.”
“Wait–” Jun grabs your wrist on your way out. The tips of his ears are tinged red. “Gimme your number. In case– y’know, in case you can’t find any good shit again.”
God, he’s cute.
Later, when you get home and find yourself raiding all the snacks in the cupboard, Mingyu catches you in the act, immediately clocks your bloodshot eyes and the stench of weed, and chews you out on the spot for 1) getting stoned in the workplace, and 2) not sharing the good stuff with him.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
“I met Weird Al Yankovic once,” Jun says, when you ask if he’s ever met any celebrities. “We made eye contact through the hatch and told me to be careful not to chop a finger off. That’s probably when my fear of knives kicked in.”
“Dude, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but you’re like the strangest person I’ve ever known.”
Jun plucks the joint from your lips and puts it to his own. You like when he does that. When the smallest brush of skin can be felt all over.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
Getting stoned with Jun after work is fast becoming a semi-regular thing. Never anywhere but his kitchen, never organised but it becomes expected. At lunch, if he’s planning on staying late, he’ll ask if you’re riding with Mingyu or getting the bus, and that’s the decider. Sometimes Vernon is there, sometimes Seungcheol.
After the third session you start offering to buy, because you’re smoking all his shit and it seems unfair that you’re probably putting his kitchen at a deficit too. Jun waves you off. He likes to do things for people, apparently. After the sixth, you start asking who his dealer is (mostly on account of Mingyu, who is vehemently against getting dummy high at work, but is just as bitter he’s been left with Mark With The Bad Stash as a supplier.) but Jun won’t say. No amount of flirting will make him fold.
Trading ridiculous questions on the floor of Sharkbait’s kitchen is becoming a semi-regular thing too. The questions are silly, always surface level, could be one of those scripted five minute mock-interviews you see online sometimes, and you know it’s because you hardly know each other to ask the real stuff yet, but you like it. It’s easy. It’s simple.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Mingyu is positively grey when you get home from visiting your parents on Thursday evening.
“Do not tell me you went to fuckass Mark again?”
“I went to fuckass Mark,” he wails.
“Whyyyyyyy, Mingyu? Why fuckass Mark?” You start to shake his shoulders but stop short when it looks like he’s about to empty his stomach over your shoes. “Get yourself to bed.”
“Can’t,” he says, ashen face knotted up into a frown. “You’re gonna have to take me.”
“You’re the size of an ostrich, Mingyu, be serious.”
“I’m not an ostrich,” he cries. “Please please please help me.”
Jesus Christ. “You’re a baby.”
He pouts. “A sick baby.”
“Soonyoung—” you yell down the hall. “Come help me drag the baby to bed!”
“Will you curse him this time?”
“Soonyoung? Did he melt a chopping board on the stove again?”
“No,” says Mingyu, screwing his eyes shut. “Mark.”
“Sure, why not.”
Finding the right kind of Etsy witch proves difficult. It’s not the scams you care about as such, but more so one that isn’t too scary looking. You don’t actually want anything serious to happen to Mark, you’ll settle for something like a bad case of halitosis– but all of these Bad Luck spell reviews cite awful occurrences that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, let alone some doofus who overcharged you for shitty weed.
You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, freshly showered and drinking leftover wine, while Soonyoung lays across the sofa and peers at your laptop screen over your shoulder. You’re waiting on your food to arrive before starting your show, and figured you’d better find a witch sooner rather than later.
“What about this one?” says Soonyoung, pointing at a listing.
“You want me to buy a curse from someone called LadyEviliansCoven?” you say, incredulous. “The one who literally has Evil Ian in her name?”
Your phone goes off.
Jun: Will you be my guinea pig tomorrow?
Me: depends. what’ve you got in mind for me ;)
Jun: Lol. It’s a surprise.
Me: okaaaaaaay fine
Me: just so long as it’s not cheese again, i fear i’m going to turn into a block of cheddar
Soonyoung reads over your shoulder. “You’re talking to Jun?”
“Yeah, we swapped numbers last week.”
Jun: I like cheddar :)
Me: omg you’re so smooth :)
Soonyoung tuts.
“What’s with you lately,” you ask. “Why are you being so weird?”
He sighs heavy. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way–” and it immediately gets your back up because he’s about to say something offensive and– “but could you not be a– um– a flirt at work?”
You spin around to pull a face at him. “I thought you were going to call me a whore for a second.”
Soonyoung smirks. “I considered it.”
“I’m not flirting with everyone.” Not seriously, anyway. Soonyoung levels you with a look. “I’m not.”
Jun: Wanna come get high with me? I have better shit than your weed guy.
“All I’m saying is don’t toy with Jun for the bit. He’s too soft-hearted.” It’s so rare that Soonyoung goes serious that it’s hard to counter it. He’s right. You have a tendency to take a joke too far, to flirt your way into and out of too many crushes. People get attached quicker than you do and it’s easy to forget when you move like the wind. Maybe it’s the other way around? Move like the wind so it’s easier to forget.
“She’s so fucking hot,” drools Soonyoung, reaching across your shoulder to jab at your screen. “Pick her.”
You scoff. “Who chooses an Etsy witch based on her level of hotness–” You stop short as you peer closer to inspect the sellers’ profile picture. “Soonyoung, that’s an AI photo, you fucking imbecile.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Sharkbait has been off limits for the last three days for recording. Mingyu said on no account can Jun or anyone else (i.e. you) get high in there until filming has wrapped, and you’re quietly convinced it’s because he wants to be invited to your smoke sessions. You don’t blame him.
This is how you end up sitting on the living room floor with everything feeling pink and golden, and off balance in that really cool, roller coaster moving in slow motion type of way. Mingyu is laying face down on the sofa, fast asleep and drooling. The bowl lays as spent as him on the table, embers fading out. Vernon and Soonyoung are chatting away and you can hardly focus on the words. Jun catches your eye, and he makes this funny expression like he’s making fun of you, and though you’re not quite following it makes you laugh anyway.
You’ve become hyper-aware of his body next to you. The long line of his legs, how he stretches out like a cat, and how you could fit your finger between the part in his lips. Soonyoung is saying something about how hungry he is, and you are too but you can’t get up from the floor as fast as Jun.
“Come help me,” Jun says. “Show me around your kitchen.”
“Ughhhhh,” you groan. But he’s pulling you up by the wrist and you’re thinking how unfair it is that someone so wiry is as strong as he is. Not just unfair but hot. Crushes are evil, you think. He’s tugging you into the kitchen by the hand, and it’s all clammy and warm but not so bad you want to let go.
You’re too high to be of much help, but you direct Jun to where you keep whatever he asks for, hold the ingredients he pulls from the fridge, chop whatever he tells you to chop, and stir whatever he tells you to stir.
“That’s a lot of garlic,” you muse.
“Yeah,” says Jun. “I know how to party.”
You’re not much of a cook, but Jun is, and he’s here with his soft voice and his soft heart, and very occasional soft touches keeping you steady. He doesn’t look at you often, but when he does his smile near breaks his face. God, it’s so nice.
Time moves strange and fluid, and the laughter from your friends filters faintly down the hallway. They sound so much further away. And then Jun is in front of you, holding a spoon up to your lips and telling you to open wide. Hard not to hear the implication behind the words, hard not to look him in the eye as you open your mouth for him and take what he offers. You’re too high for this.
There are butterflies in your stomach, in your eyes, in your mouth. You let them fly.
You swallow, thick. Lick your upper lip, slow. Under his breath, Jun swears.
“This is so good, I’d let it get me pregnant.”
Jun startles. “Uh– I’m not ready to be a dad.”
“The food, Junhui.”
A long pause. Jun stares. “Right. Hahaha.”
Mingyu is in the doorway, white-knuckling the frame. “OhmyfuckingGod, guys,” he says. “I got this vision you were kissing. I think I’m telescopic.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Monday morning rolls around far too quickly and you’re wondering who decided an eight o’clock lecture would be appropriate for the start of the week. Professor Lee talks of how the progress of technology affects aesthetics in her usual soft way of speaking, and you make an attempt at concentrating enough to take notes while ignoring the incessant buzzing in your pocket. At the end of the session, Professor Lee calls your name as you’re packing up your bag. Your friends hang back, but knowing the line for coffee will be miles long if they don’t hustle you tell them not to wait and to grab you a coffee, and you make your way to the front.
Professor Lee greets you warmly. She’s felt sorry for you ever since Jiho left you in the lurch. When it all came to light she’d tried to get you to join another group, but your peers were so far into their projects you’d only disrupt their rhythm if they had to find something for you to do, and your contribution would be next to nothing. You’ve never liked being a burden, but with the deadline edging closer you’re starting to regret not taking Professor Lee’s advice.
“I wanted to check in with you,” she says gently. Bless her. “How’s your assignment coming along?”
One month, two weeks, and five days left. You still have nothing, nada, zilch. Unfortunately, your first instinct is to lie out of your arsehole.
“Good, thank you!” you say brightly.
“I didn’t see your name on the equipment rentals list?”
Fuck. Fucking shitballs.
“Oh, that’s because I’m filming on my dad’s Super 8.” Shit shit shit shit. He does have a Super 8 but there’s not a chance in hell he’ll let you use enough film to make up twenty minutes worth of footage. “Thought it’d give it that authentic nostalgic feel.”
Professor Lee’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Super 8? Audio film is hard to get hold of these days. What are you doing for sound?”
“Tascam. I’ll edit it together in post.”
“Are you having someone slate for you? It’s tricky to sync if you don’t.”
“Yeah, one of my friends.”
This lie is already getting too big. You have no time– since for all the days you’re not in lectures, you’re at work, and it’s not like there’s anything to film there. People on animal floaties bobbing down the lazy river? Bored lifeguards messing around by the wave pool? Jun, high as fuck, making you sandwiches and pretending not to have a big fat crush on you and pointedly ignoring how you flirt with him?
Wait.
Wait.
It’s a moment not unlike all those old cartoons, in which the light bulb flashes above the characters head.
“I’ve got to say– I’m really concerned you’ve bitten off more than you can chew,” Professor Lee says, her voice low and serious. But you’re not paying it mind, because now– now you finally have an idea. And the guys will help, they’re all born entertainers. The trouble will be convincing your dad. The trouble will also be not telling Mingyu and convincing Soonyoung to not give the game away.
“I’m okay, really.”
Professor Lee is unconvinced, but you’re resolute now. You can turn this around.
Out in the hallway, you pull out your phone to see a slew of messages.
Gyu: I need your help
Gyu: I’m FUCKED
Gyu: I also need to get catastrophically drunk and/or stoned tonight, please beg Jun to give up his dealer because I sure as shit am not going back to motherfucking Mark
Jun: guinea pig duties tomorrow? new pancake recipe
Gyu: I’m so fucked CALL ME
Soonsoon: u will never guess what’s happened
Gyu: Never forgetting that you abandoned me in my time of need
Gyu: If I pay you a lot of money will you call me????
Soonsoon: btw mingyu’s about to have a heart attack please call him so he stops crying
Gyu: I think I’m dying, please make sure my family know it was your fault
You call Mingyu back. It’s hard to hear through all the tears and the wailing but eventually Soonyoung snatches the phone from his hand and walks you through the drama of the day. The long and short of it is Mingyu has been scammed out of fifty percent of the filming allowance, a whole thirty-thousand dollars and the biggest budget he’s been tasked with managing so far. The film crew has disappeared into thin air. The deadline for rolling out the summer ad is looming over his head, and now he’s begging you to help him fix it before he loses face, and/or his job.
Well.
Shit.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Okay. The plan is you’ve got the green light for a mockumentary, of sorts– in exchange for a thirty-second ad for television. And you’re being paid. Not the same amount as the scammy crew, of course, but way more than you could’ve hoped for as a filmography student. Sure, you’re good, but this is unheard of. Unbelievable. You’re taking it as a compliment, even though Mingyu was unnecessarily clear about only asking you because it’s too late in the game to ask anyone else.
Truth be told, you had no idea Mingyu had so much power. He’s talked your manager into giving you a half shift off ticket booth duty until filming is complete, and wrangled you an intern from the office to assist.
Seungkwan the intern is apparently grateful to be ‘let out of the dungeon’ and although he doesn’t have the first clue about what he’ll be doing for you, he’s a quick learner and very eager to avoid hot desking and spending his day fetching coffee. You’ve roped in a bunch of your coworkers to act as your characters. Some extreme version of themselves will do, you’d said, but some of them want to bring something new to the table. Seokmin in particular was rather excited.
You’ve settled on using Super 8 for both projects. You figure you could recycle some of the footage if necessary, and it saves switching between two different styles and sets of equipment. With the payment Mingyu has approved for you, you can afford to buy your own film instead of attempting to persuade your dad to use his, so for all intents and purposes– it’s all systems go.
Except it’s closing hours, and tomorrow will be your first half-day of filming, and you’re laying down in the log flume, not knowing where you’ll start. This is where Jun finds you, legs flopped over the edge of the plastic log, picking at your cuticles and fretting over the enormity of the work you have before you.
“Bad day?” he says. He’s wearing his visor backwards, hair falling in his soft eyes, looking like sugar and all things nice.
“Weird day.” You heave a sigh. “I think I’m not good enough for this.” Jun doesn’t reply, just waits for you to carry on. How could he know what you’re good for? “I think I peaked when I was fourteen, and now it’s all downhill.”
“Fourteen was a nightmare for me, who peaks at that age?” says an unconvinced Jun.
“I could do, like, fuckloads of backflips. Like ten.”
Jun’s eyes bug out. “In a row?”
“Yeah.”
“Woah,” says Jun, under his breath. “So does that make you up-down dizzy instead of circle dizzy?”
You furrow your brow. “I never really thought about it.”
“This isn’t helping?”
You purse your lips and shake your head. “Not at all.”
“Wanna come over and I’ll make you dinner?”
It takes all of 0.3 seconds to mull it over. “Yeah, okay,” you say, stretching out an arm for Jun to pull you up from the log. He wraps his long fingers around your wrist and tugs, setting you on your feet, and as you start to walk he slings his arm, familiar and friendly, to rest across your shoulders.
“Can we have literally anything that isn’t cheese based?”
Jun sucks air between his teeth. “Well– I had planned on lasagne.”
“Jun, please no,” you beg, clutching at his waist. “My heart is two grams of saturated fat away from sending in its resignation letter.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
His place is bigger than you expected. But whatever, his finances aren’t your business. Much bigger than you’d thought would be manageable for a guy on a cook’s salary. He gives you the tour. There’s three bedrooms. Two of which are devoid of any character, and his, which is full of it. Very him.
“Are your roommates at work?”
“I don’t have any,” he says. “Just me.”
Oh. His finances aren’t your business.
“I like your cat painting,” you say, pointing to the wiry black kitten sitting in a bodega fridge, hanging above his bedside table.
“Thanks,” he says.
He shows you out the bedroom and back downstairs, for quote unquote the rest– there’s more?
There is more. In the entryway is a door you’d assumed a cupboard, but no– it leads downstairs through to a fucking cinema room.
“Dude are you, like, rich?”
Jun laughs, rubs the back of his neck, goes a little red. Very cute.
“This place belonged to my uncle.”
“Woah,” you marvel. “All I ever inherited was the foot in mouth gene and my granddad’s Hi-Fi system.”
“What’s that?”
“Exactly.”
Much like at Sharkbait, you sit on the counter and yap while Jun cooks. He makes hot pot (thank god, because your body has been crying out for vegetables for too long) and keeps having you taste the stock, and when it’s finally done, he asks you to choose something to drink– “beer, wine, liquor, choose whatever,” he says. “It’s all there.”
You chew on the corner of your mouth as you stare at the selection. There’s too much of it and everything looks expensive. The wine bottles have real corks, for Christ’s sake. It’s starting to feel like you’ve been standing there too long, confirmed when Jun comes to stand beside you and asks if you like red. You do, so he picks up something with a worn label. Pomerol, or something. 1952.
“Do you collect this stuff?” you ask, as Jun pours two glasses, and slides one over to you.
Jun laughs for real this time.
“Nah, it was my uncle’s hobby,” he says. “Feels weird to get rid of it.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say softly, resting your hand on his arm.
Jun blinks at you, confused. You take a sip of wine. It tastes old.
“Were you close?”
“Oh– no, he’s not dead. He’s in prison for tax fraud.”
You nearly choke.
Jun slaps your back so hard you’re sure it’ll leave prints that’ll last long enough for Soonyoung to drag you for, and when you finally get your breath back you leap into scolding him.
“Why’d you make it sound like he died?”
Jun gapes. “Hey, you just assume! I didn’t make it sound like anything!”
“You should’ve led with the prison thing, fucknut! People get the wrong idea.”
Jun’s lips twitch. “You’re right, I should introduce myself like that,” he scoffs. “Hi, I’m Jun– by the way, my uncle is a felon and I live in his obnoxiously large house.”
You laugh. “Solid intro.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, rolling his eyes but he’s smiling. “Want me to top up your glass.”
“Fuck no, it tastes like shit.”
“Oh, thank God. I hate it too.”
“Have you got anything stronger?”
Jun grins like the devil.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
Your head is throbbing. So sick to your stomach that you can’t stand the smell of the breakfast sandwich Jun had slipped into your bag this morning, before you’d run out the door to get to work early. But now Soonyoung is here being a bother– initially concerned but now delighted.
“Where’d you sleep last night?” he sing-songs.
“Fuck off.”
“Not Jun’s place, surely?” He’s putting on his gross cutesy voice.
“Fuck off, Soonyoung.”
“Did you get dicked down?”
“Nothing happened.”
“Oooooh! You wanna tell me the dirty details so bad!”
“I wanna ram this fucking boom mic up your asshole,” you snap, waving it at him menacingly, and it’s enough to make Soonyoung to take a step back and cover his backside with his hands.
“I hate when you’re hungover,” he mutters. “You’re mean.”
“You and me both, sunshine,” you grumble. “But you’re annoying.”
“Yup,” he says. “Can I have your breakfast? I didn’t eat yet.”
“Go nuts.”
Soonyoung inhales your food, and it doesn’t do much to settle your stomach. Seungkwan, Seokmin, Mingyu, Joshua, and Chan show up– and you try very hard to concentrate on explaining the shots you want for the advert. A walk-through of the entrance, Joshua handing over their tickets, and following them walking into the park. And later, when it’s busier with actual customers, focusing on them on the rides, eating lunch, hanging out on the lazy river. Splashes of water from the slides, etcetera etcetera. Some of this might do for an intro to your mockumentary, too.
You ready the camera, Seungkwan stands there waiting with the slate, Soonyoung is on mic duty, the others are in their positions.
And you try to focus, you really do, but your mind just keeps slipping back to last night– going over the conversations you had on the floor of Jun’s living room, after a bottle of something you can’t begin to pronounce and the shittiest rolled joint you’ve had since you were a teenager. You’d played twenty questions, Jun hesitated, and like an idiot you pushed.
“I really wanted to ask if you flirt with me ‘cause you like me or if it’s the same for everyone.” He sucked in a breath. “But I chickened out. Don’t wanna have my dreams crushed yet.”
“Uh-huh,” you’d said, as you passed the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours. “Ask me again when you wanna know.”
BEE. this was so good i literally could not stop laughing the whole way through 😭
the prose walks this perfect line between dry wit and quiet sweet moments between mc and jun. it's unserious but never ever shallow; it manages to be so incredibly soft when you’re not looking. like the writing is so effortlessly funny and then out of nowhere it drops a line that makes your chest ache a little.
i also love how much personality reader had!! her character feels unpretentious, hilarious, but also vulnerable in moments you don't expect. her background with jiho (and fuck jiho!!!!!!!) is not big or dramatic but its effect is very subtly woven in with her own actions and attitudes, and i think it's so cleverly done. heart eyes.
reader and jun also just have my HEARTTT like there are just these moments where the humour slips and we get to see how much they see each other even w/o meaning to. im so so excited for part two,,, u can Feel the tension simmering between them rn and im so invested.
also just dumping a few of my fav lines at the end bc your writing is gorgeous and hilarious and so wonderful!!!!!!!!!!
He goes to shake your hand but stops when he seemingly remembers there’s a pane of glass separating you.
Chan hangs back a little. “Oh my God,” he says, wide eyed. “A woman.”
“You only do unisex clothes?” Seokmin says into the receiver. “Don’t you do unisex for women?”"
“You’ve been to our place?” // “Just once. You weren’t there. I’d have remembered.” (…) Jun stares at you. Quietly, he says, “I can’t think straight.”
“Do not tell me you went to fuckass Mark again?” // “I went to fuckass Mark,” he wails. // “Whyyyyyyy, Mingyu? Why fuckass Mark?”
☀︎ pairing: kim mingyu x fem!reader
☀︎theme: summer 2000 au, coworkers to lovers, lifeguard!reader, swim teacher!mingyu
☀︎ w/c: 10k
☀︎ warnings: 18+ MDNI, jealousy, switch!mingyu, switch!reader, semi public make outs, protected sex (that's a yes yes), marking, fingering, multiple orgasms, oral [f. receiving], mentions of drinking/getting drunk, set in ohio (yes that's a warning), meddling joshua, thirsty for milfs hoshi, dk is really bad at cornhole, seungkwan is competitive, wonwoo is somehow a lifeguard with glasses, and chan needs to up his security
☀︎ a/n: written as part of the Carat Bay collab put on by @camandemstudios - make sure to check out the full collab masterlist here go have some fun in the park! thanks a million to my lovely beta readers: @gyuswhore, @haologram, and @seungkw1 special thanks to @highvern for enabling my crazy ideas and @lovetaroandtaemin for having to hear me crash out about this every 2-3 business days. love you all so dearly.
“Have a great summer, Mr. Kim!” Small arms wrapped around the teacher’s waist as he was waving outside his classroom to all of the students heading out to the freedom of summer break.
“You too, Lindsay!” He smiled down at her. “Will I see you at swimming lessons this summer?”
“No,” the girl deflated. “My mom signed me up for horse camp this year.”
“Lindsay! That’s awesome! You love horses, you'll have a great summer!”
“I hope so!” She smiled at him remembering her favorite animal. “See you next year!” She waved at him and skipped down the hallway. When the throng of elementary students began to thin out he ducked back into his classroom to finish up cleaning before he too left for the summer.
He was erasing the chalkboard when he heard another person enter.
“Mingyu Kim!”
“Hi Josh.” Mingyu continued erasing the board as Joshua crossed his classroom and took a seat at Mingyu’s desk, kicking his feet up on top of it.
“We made it! Two months of freedom!” Joshua watched his friend erase various art works on the board from his students.
“Maybe for you, I start swim lessons next week.” Mingyu laughed.
“You can never leave that girl alone can you?”
“What?” Mingyu turned to look at the other man, “it’s not about Y/N, it’s about having money over the summer, asshole.”
“Mhmm, and how long have you wanted her?”
“Joshua, drop it.” Mingyu rolled his eyes and returned to his task.
“Dude you gotta get laid this summer.” Joshua stretched out his arms.
“I don’t wanna ruin the friendship, it’s a no go.” Mingyu put the eraser on the chalk tray, turned toward Joshua, and crossed his arms.
“See!” Joshua pointed at Mingyu. “That’s what I’m saying! I didn’t even say by Y/N! You’re too hung up on her, man.” Mingyu sighed.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“I am,” Joshua stood up and started to head toward the door. “Seokmin says you’ll have a girlfriend by July, I say no way.”
“I wish you would stop talking about my dating life with people who aren’t me.” Mingyu frowned.
“I will not, anyway, get laid, have some fun, bring somebody to teacher dinner in July.” Joshua smirked, “Make a fool out of me, I’ll owe Seokmin 50 bucks.”
“I’m so happy you’re back!” Your mom exclaimed as soon as you crossed the threshold of the house.
“Me too, Mom.” You smiled as you wrapped her in a hug. “Where’s dad?”
“He had to work late tonight,” she frowned, “I’m sorry sweetie, but we can make the most of it! We can watch a movie and order in if you want!” Your mom always had a habit of trying to make everything the most fun thing you’ve ever done. Usually it’s more involved than dinner and ordering take out so this was good.
“I’d like that.” You smile.
Over dinner she asked you all about your year away at school. She was so proud of you when you got into graduate school directly from college. She missed you a lot of course, but she was thrilled you were following your dreams.
“And you’ll be back at the pool for the summer?” She asked.
“Yeah, just like every summer.” You laughed at your summer job that you had gotten attached to. You weren’t sure what you would do after you got a real job and couldn’t be out at the pool with your friends every summer.
“Well that’s good, you’ll get to see everyone again!” She grinned, “Mingyu is still there right, he was always so nice to you.”
“He quit a couple summers ago, but last year he had some swim lesson slots, so maybe he’ll be doing that again this year, I’m not sure.” You admitted, hoping that it was true.
The afternoon sun beat down on you as you waited for the shift change. You watched a teenager belly flop into the pool with a painful sounding smack as he made contact with the water. His friends all laughed from the line behind the diving board and heckled him for the red tinge to his chest and stomach as he climbed up the ladder.
“Y/N!” You heard a soft voice call up to you. “Shift change!” You looked down to see another lifeguard, Nako, smiling up at you. As you jumped down the last few rungs of the ladder of the chair she added, “Enjoy your lunch!” You smiled at her in appreciation.
The lifeguards and attendants that shared your lunch slot were already taking up a long table near the snack bar when you approached with your lunch box. Whistles and fanny packs were strewn about the table, mixing with sandwich bags and water bottles. You smiled at the familiarity of it all before stealing a seat between Hitomi and Soonyoung.
You could have technically called any of the staff at the park your friend but you took Nako and Hitomi under your wing when they started here a few summers ago. They have been glued to your side ever since.
“Hey Y/N!” Soonyoung slung his arm around your shoulder, his half eaten sandwich in his other hand. Soonyoung was the employee tasked with showing you the ropes when you started, he was 17 and thought he was hot shit.
“Hi Soonyoung,” you carefully removed his arm. “How have you been?”
“Been great.” He beamed. “Still at the dance studio teaching every night!”
“Cool beans,” you offer. “I’m finishing graduate school this year.” You began to unpack your lunch. The lifeguards only get 30 minutes for lunch and you didn’t feel like wasting them most days. The conversation buzzed around your head while you scarfed down your own sandwich.
“Yo! Wonwoo!” Soonyoung threw a grape at the other lifeguard’s head.
“What the hell dude?” Wonwoo grumbled from the other end of the table.
“You talk to Mingyu Kim outside of here don’t you?” Soonyoung stood up to get a better look at Wonwoo over everyone’s heads. You looked up at him, trying to figure out his angle.
“He’s literally my roommate.” Wonwoo deadpanned.
“Oh nice!” Soonyoung exclaimed. “Is he coming back this summer or is he a real traitor?” He narrowed his eyes at Wonwoo. Mingyu quit the water park two years ago in favor of teaching swimming lessons. He typically has one or two days a week every summer that he teaches lessons at his old stomping grounds, so Soonyoung was making sure he wasn’t leaving for good. You perked up slightly at the question, wanting to be sure you would be seeing him this year too.
“Thursdays.” Wonwoo replied simply.
“Sick.” Soonyoung pumped his sandwich above his head. “I think this is the year people! Mingyu Kim will help me bag an older woman this year, I feel it!” He plopped back down in his seat with a satisfied smile.
“You are disgusting.” You muttered.
“Oh!” Soonyoung turned to you. “Speaking of Mingyu, are you finally gonna let the poor guy smash this year?” You heard Hitomi cough behind you.
“What?” You dropped your Capri-sun onto the table.
“Oh don’t be dumb,” Soonyoung rolled his eyes. “The entire state of Ohio knows at this point.”
“Knows what?”
“That Mingyu’s had a fat crush on you since 1993.”
“Cherry! When is your break?” You heard a familiar voice call up to you in the lifeguard chair at promptly 9:55 am on Thursday.
“10:45, sharp!” You called back. The kiddie section of the pool was calm enough for you to steal a glance in his direction. He was smiling up at you and using his hand to block the sun. You had to force your eyeballs to not pop out of your skull at the sight of him.
You’ve known Mingyu since the first summer you bagged a job here, when you both were 16, that was eight years ago now. So to say that you watched each other grow up would be somewhat accurate, and how he continued to come back each summer bigger than the last is a mystery to you. His tan skin contrasted against the white t-shirt he cut and tore the sleeves off of last summer.
Before Mingyu had the chance to respond there was a shrill squeal of Mr. Kim and he turned to face the child speeding toward him. He glanced over his shoulder to see you put your whistle between your teeth and quickly motioned for the girl to slow down.
“Oh my God, Samantha!” The girl’s mom breathed, catching up to her. “You can’t just run off like that!” She shifted her focus to Mingyu, “Hey Mr. Kim, sorry about that.” She smiled in the way all the single moms smile at Mingyu. You rolled your eyes, luckily they couldn’t see from the ground.
“No worries, Ms. Owens!” Mingyu smiled back at her. They chatted idly until the rest of Mingyu’s class trickled in, some moms glaring at Ms. Owens as they realized she got here early to chat up the teacher. Eventually, she and the rest of the parents took seats at the deck chairs behind your chair.
Mingyu was great with kids, which made sense considering he was a teacher year round. You watched as he assisted each student in a lap around the small shallow area for lessons.
Eventually Mingyu led his class out of a pool and walked them around toward the area of the park with slides. He always left ten minutes at the end of lessons so that each student could go down the kiddie slide twice each. As his class approached Soonyoung popped out from behind the small slide and pretended to be a tiger. The shrill screams and laughs of the class filled the air.
At 10:45 you climbed down from the lifeguard chair, Mingyu was waiting with a few students whose parents dropped them off for lessons instead of staying. He signaled for you to wait a second for him. You meandered toward the front of the park towards him, taking your time. A few minutes later Mingyu was sending the kids off with their parents.
“The usual?” He grinned down at you once he was free.
“Obviously, I’ve been waiting all year for this, Kim.” You smirked, “You have 10 minutes.” Mingyu nodded at you once and turned on his heel and was off. You followed him in toe and stopped in front of the window of the snack bar while he snuck around the side.
“Hi Y/N!” Chan, the snack bar attendant, sent you a toothy grin.
“Good morning Chan!” You placed your hands on the counter and straightened out your arms so your feet left the ground and you could see over the counter.
“Uh, how was your school year?” Chan sputtered at you crowding his space, the counter between you. Out of the corner of your eye you saw the side door of the snack bar crack open.
“It was great!” You tried to not watch as Mingyu slipped his hand into the freezer near the door. “I got to take a brain and behavior course this year.” You smiled at the blush creeping up his neck. The freezer door slammed on Mingyu’s hand.
“Shit!” He hissed. Chan whipped around toward Mingyu.
“C’mon you guys!” He looked between you and your accomplice. “You can’t keep doing this!”
“Chan chillax,” you hopped down from the counter and ruffled his hair. “They’re a dollar, you can take them out of my pay if it makes you feel better.”
“You know, I used to run this place.” Mingyu announced digging through the freezer. “No one would have dared to steal from me!”
“Yeah. I’ve heard.” Chan deadpanned, “No one stole from you because you worked here! You can’t steal from yourself.”
“Well, still,” Mingyu plucked two popsicles from the back, “Up your security, little man.”
“Up your security little man.” Chan mocked as Mingyu walked out of the snack bar and toward a table.
“Thanks Chan!” You called over your shoulder, following Mingyu to the outdoor tables. He hands you a popsicle as you sit down across from him.
“Cherry.” He looked at you as you unwrapped it. This is where he got your nickname, you’ve been demanding the cherry popsicles since the first summer, back when he ran the snack bar. “Grape.” He unwrapped his, “just like always, he tried to hide our flavors at the back.”
“Of course he did.” You laughed. The summer heat was starting to rise as the day hurtled toward afternoon, the two of you would need to make quick work of the treats if you didn’t want to be a sticky mess.
Evidently Mingyu didn’t get the memo because he quickly had grape popsicle running down his hand. You watched as he slowly licked it up. Your summer work friend licking his own hand probably shouldn’t have made your stomach swirl like that.
“Mingyu Kim! Just the guy I wanted to see!” Soonyoung leans against the lifeguard chair you were occupying. “How is the summer treating you?”
“Uh,” Mingyu chuckled. “Well, it’s week two of swim lessons now, so fine I guess.” He continued to sort through the kickboards he was planning to use for his lesson today.
“Right, right.” Soonyoung flipped down his sunglasses. “Those rugrats really love you, huh?”
“Yeah, I teach at the school most of them go to, so they see me a lot.” Mingyu moved the kickboards from the supplies box to the edge of the pool.
“And their moms do too.” Soonyoung added.
“Is that why you’re talking to me right now, Soonyoung?” Mingyu looked up at Soonyoung from his squatting position, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Noooo, c’mon Mingyu, don’t be like that! We’re friends!”
“So you don’t want to talk about the single moms that stay to watch my class?”
“Well,” Soonyoung sputtered. “I mean if you want to talk about them, who am I to stop you?” Mingyu stood up to his full height and moved closer to Soonyoung.
“Tell you what,” Mingyu lowered his voice. “I’ll introduce you to Ms. Owens, just between you and me, I think she’s kind of desperate.”
“Noted.” Soonyoung waggled his eyebrows and reached behind his ears to press the stems of his sunglasses so they moved up and down on his face.
“Just uh, don’t do that shit when she gets here.” Mingyu told him, glancing up at you trying not to laugh. Soonyoung dropped his arms to his sides in defeat.
“Noted.” He said somberly. Soon after Ms. Owens and Samantha approached the two of them, Ms. Owens was always early.
“Good morning Mr. Kim and tiger guy!” Samantha chirped.
“Good morning, Mr. Kim!” Ms. Owens made a show out of checking Mingyu out.
“Hey, Ms. Owens,” Mingyu grabbed Soonyoung by the arm and pushed him forward. “Have you met Soonyoung? He’s one of the head lifeguards here!”
“Oh..hi.” She lowered her sunglasses to get a better look at him.
“Samantha, do you want to help set out the kickboards?” Mingyu asked the girl who agreed easily and they left Soonyoung and her mom alone. You took a mental note to grab Soonyoung and get all the information later when Mingyu inevitably steals popsicles from Chan.
You watched the rain pound against the window from the safety of one of few tables inside the small shelter at the pool. The room was small and packed with employees and a few patrons that came to the pool before the sky opened up and forced everyone inside. Days like this were always weird, there was nothing to do besides wait for the rain to stop, or at least lighten up enough to let people back outside.
Between the heavy rain and the sounds of Soonyoung and Chan attempting to commandeer a table to turn it into a makeshift ping pong table, it was hard to focus on any one thing. You watched Hitomi through the reflection in the window as she gave up her table to the boys and walked over to the other side where a bulk of the other lifeguards were sitting and squeezed in next to Nako.
You felt his presence before he even had to speak. Even so, you continued to watch the rain until he decided to make conversation. He bumped your knee under the table as the chair creaked slightly under him.
“Hey,” Mingyu said softly.
“Hey,” you returned and faced him. His hair was slightly damp from the rain and his loose t-shirt was sticking to his skin in some places. You forced yourself to look at his face. “I figured you wouldn’t be here today, lessons are cancelled.”
“Yeah, but what else do I have to do on Thursdays?” He smiled lazily and then opened his mouth like he had something else to add but thought better of it.
“Anything else,” you laughed. “What I wouldn’t give to not be stuck here with these idiots all day.” You gestured to Soonyoung and Chan who have made a net out of napkins and are using Soonyoung’s flip flops as paddles. Mingyu followed your gaze and choked back a laugh at the sight of Soonyoung’s bare feet on the floor.
“Nasty.” He states simply turning back to you. “But entertaining, you have to give them that.”
“I won’t,” you deadpan. “That would give them big heads.” He held his hands up in surrender and let a comfortable silence fall between you. The sound of the rain continued to beat on the window behind your head and you turned to face it. You could feel Mingyu’s eyes on your back but you tried to ignore him. Ever since you were young you thought the bubbles that form from rain falling into water were cool, you wished you could go see them up close.
“Are you on weekend rotation this week?” Mingyu broke the silence from behind you. You turned back around and shook your head, you had the weekend off. “Cool…” He nodded.
“What?” You pushed and leaned on your hand.
“So like what are you doing on Saturday?” He looked around the room.
“Uh, nothing?” You couldn’t figure out his angle. “I live with my parents.”
“Okay, cool,” he flustered, “well not cool that you live with your parents, but like, cool that you’re free!” His leg started to bounce. “So, some of the teachers and I are getting together at Sailor’s on Saturday.”
“Okay? And?”
“Do you want to come?” He finally looked back at you.
“I mean, I don’t work with you, I’m not even a teacher.” You reminded him.
“Oh,” he smiled sheepishly. “I meant, like, as my date?”
“What?” You nearly shrieked.
“Listen,” he sighed. “The other teachers were taking bets on the last day, about whether or not I get laid this summer, I just need you to pretend, for a night! That’s all I swear!” You stared at him, this was not where you expected this conversation to go. “Please Cherry, help me out.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“You’ll do it?” He perked up.
“I didn’t say that,” you pointed out, “I asked what’s in it for me.”
“I’ll buy you dinner?” He said it like a question. You gestured for him to keep going. “And three beers.”
“Four beers.” You wagered.
“Three beers and we can split one.” He countered. You considered this for a moment. It could be fun to actually go out and actually see Mingyu, and people your age, outside of work.
“Fine,” you watched Mingyu light up, “but you can’t touch me.”
“Deal!” He said too enthusiastically. “I’ll pick you up on Saturday at 5!” He sprung up from his seat and jogged to the entrance before you had the chance to change your mind.
Mingyu had barely made it out the door before Hitomi was sitting across from you. She smiled at you widely.
“Hi!” She said brightly.
“Hi Tomi.” You couldn’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.
“What are you doing Saturday morning?”
“Y/NNNNIEEE” You heard Hitomi squeal across the mall food court bright and early on Saturday. You looked up to see her and Nako linked arm and arm, headed in your direction. You raised a hand to wave at them.
“Good morning!” Nako laughed as they slid into the seats across the table from you.
“Where does she get the energy?” You asked Nako, teasing Hitomi.
“Good question.” Nako joked, bumping the other girl with her elbow.
“I’m just excited!” Hitomi crossed her arms over her chest, “the three of us never get the weekend off together!”
“You’re so cute, we’re just teasing.” Nako poked Hitomi’s cheek. “Have you been waiting for us long, Y/N?” She asked.
“Oh,” you looked between them, “No I just got here like a few minutes ago.”
“Oh good!” Hitomi smiled, “so. Tell us everything.”
“What?” You blinked at her.
“Your date with Mingyu?” Hitomi said as if she was appalled that you could have forgotten.
“What?” You snorted. “How do you even know about that?”
“Nako is a really good listener.” Hitomi said dreamily. Nako nodded.
“I heard you two talking all hush hush yesterday.”
“It’s not a date.” You corrected them. Hitomi huffed. “He needs a favor and he agreed to buy me dinner if I help him out with his work buddies.”
“It’s not even real?” Hitomi whined dramatically. “When will he grow up?”
“What are you talking about?” You asked.
“Everybody, and I mean everybody, knows that he’s had a crush on you for like ever.” Nako noted.
“Everybody keeps saying that!” You slump in your chair.
“Because it’s true?” Hitomi leaned forward. “You should get a new outfit, show him he should make it real!” She grinned.
“Is that why you guys invited me here?” You peaked at Hitomi.
“No!” Hitomi squeaked.
“Yes.” Nako laughed at the same time.
Not even fifteen minutes later they were walking you through one of the clothing stores in the mall. You had your arms full with shirts, jeans, skirts, everything. You stopped in front of a rack and picked up a top that was your style.
“No red.” Hitomi swooped in. “You’re a lifeguard, he’s only seen you in red!”
“You ready?” Mingyu asked, putting his car into park in front of the bar. He spent the short drive across town filling you in on whatever he thought a girlfriend should know about him. What grade he teaches, what school, who would be there.
“Sure thing!” You scoffed. “As if this is not the weirdest thing you’ve roped me into.” You glanced at him.
“That can’t be true.” He smiled at you.
The two of you approached the entrance and Mingyu jogged ahead to hold the door for you. As you crossed the threshold you felt the ghost of his hand floating just behind the small of your back. You chose not to mention it.
“Mingyu!” You heard someone shout from across the room. You looked toward the source of the voice to see a man smiling brightly and waving enthusiastically above his head.
“Cherry, that’s us…” Mingyu muttered close to your ear, making you jump. You know he was just trying to speak to you above the noise but that didn’t stop you from flushing at the proximity and the use of your nickname, like the moment was just for the two of you. He led you through the other groups of people cluttering the room until you were in front of the table filled with Mingyu’s coworkers and their partners.
He introduced everyone one by one, the guy waving was Seokmin. You already knew Joshua’s name from the car ride over, remembering him as the ringleader of the bet that got you here in the first place.
“Nice to finally meet you,” Joshua smiled at you, “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Have you?” You steal a glance at Mingyu, who looked like he could kill his friend.
“Hey if the waiter comes by, will you grab me?” Seokmin interrupted. “Seungkwan and I are going to play Jenga!” Before anyone had the chance to respond he was running toward the patio where there were several games set up for patrons.
“And we won’t see them for another hour.” Joshua laughed. “So, how has the pool been?”
“It’s a water park.” You corrected before you realized what you were doing. Joshua looked at you amused.
“Very serious about it?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh my God, no!” You covered your mouth with your hand.
“Our first boss at the park was extremely serious about insisting it was a water park,” Mingyu reached for the bowl of pretzels on the table. “We used to get in trouble for calling it a pool.”
“Oh God, really?” Joshua pushed the bowl toward Mingyu. “Like how our school colors aren’t yellow and blue?”
“They are gold and royal!” Mingyu held up his hand in a salute motion, sending Joshua into laughter.
“Oh hang on,” Joshua pointed toward the waiter making his rounds and jogged out toward the patio as well. Mingyu ordered for the two of you, looking at you for guidance on what beer you wanted. You told the waiter what you wanted and added a basket of fries to the order. Joshua returned with Seungkwan and Seokmin, the three of them putting in orders as well. The rest of the table ordered and the low buzz of conversation returned around you.
You watched Mingyu interact with people he sees every day. He was close with everyone, knew things about them all. It was simultaneously familiar and foreign to you. Joshua and Mingyu continued complaining about the principal with Seokmin and Seungkwan chiming in every now and then.
“What about you, Y/N?” Seokmin piped up when you were about halfway through beer two. “I know you work at that water park in the summer, but what do you do the rest of the year?”
“Oh, I’m finishing up grad school this year.” You steal a french fry from Mingyu’s plate. He gave you a look, clearly confused why you took one from him when you had your own. You gestured toward your empty basket. He smiled fondly and rolled his eyes. Something akin to butterflies exploded in your stomach.
“Oh yeah?” Joshua sipped his drink, “What are you studying?”
“Anesthesiology” You down a good fraction of your beer. “Like drugs for surgeries and stuff.”
“Dude, you better keep her.” Joshua turned to Mingyu. “She’s smart and can put down a beer, she’s like your dream.” Mingyu coughed on his own beer and sputtered. You laughed at the tinge of pink on his cheeks and the thumbs up he gave Joshua.
The conversation flowed easily for the entire night, you could honestly say you liked Mingyu’s friends at this point. That could be because you were three beers deep and out on the patio facing Seungkwan and Seokmin in cornhole, but you were having a good time.
“Min, you have to at least get the bag on the board!” Seungkwan yelled across the patio at the other man.
“Kwan, I’m trying but it’s tough when there’s like three boards.” He launched another bag into the ground. While he took his turn you crossed the court and tugged on Mingyu’s arm.
“What’s up?” He looked down at you.
“Beer, Kim.” You snatched the bottle from his hand. The beer you promised to share was never poured into glasses to give you both half. That was out of the question at the end of beer two. You took a swig from the mouth of the bottle. The entire night Mingyu kept his end of the deal, not touching you. He even sat on his hands to stop himself before the boys challenged the two of you to a game.
You did not make that promise easy on him as soon as you were on to beer three. Your head felt heavy and it was easier to lean onto Mingyu, considering how solid he was. Several times earlier at the table he itched to wrap his arm around you and have this feel even more real than it already did to his swimming head.
Now, outside on the deck you returned the beer to his hand, your fingers swiping his on the way. He smiled like an idiot as he watched you return to your spot on the opposite board. Mingyu and yourself faired about as well as Seokmin and Seungkwan, considering all of you had been drinking all night. Mingyu tossed a bean bag with his free hand, it hit the ground and rolled onto the board.
“That’s a point!” Mingyu cheered.
“No it isn’t!” Seungkwan piped up from beside you, “if it hits the ground it doesn’t count!”
“Says who?” Mingyu yelled back.
“Says the rules of cornhole!” The two of them bickered about the scoring for several minutes. Mingyu began shouting and walking toward Seungkwan who was standing in the middle of the court at this point. Seokmin looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. You walked toward Mingyu and tried to get the beer from his hand. He kept talking with his hands so you couldn’t get it from him.
“Kim.” You grab his face and turn it toward you. “If you don’t stop arguing about a point that you know isn’t valid and give me that beer I swear to God.” He stared at you in stunned silence and you plucked the bottle from his hand. You downed the rest of the beer.
“I knew I liked her!” Seungkwan said to no one in particular.
Your team did manage to squeak out a win before Joshua came to collect everyone to close their tabs. Mingyu followed him inside while you helped the others clean up the game supplies you had used.
Mingyu leaned on the bar while the bartender calculated his total. Joshua studied Mingyu’s slightly tipsy demeanor.
“There’s just no way you bagged her.” He said skeptically.
“Why?” Mingyu smirked.
“Because you’ve been blabbering everyone’s ears off about her for years.” Joshua pointed out.
“Ready?” You snaked your arms around Mingyu’s waist, cutting off the conversation as you returned from outside. You looked up at him and he looked like he could short circuit, you shot him a warning look and he twisted his face into a smile.
“Yup!” He finally wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Let’s get outta here, thanks Josh, see you in August!”
Mingyu gripped and let go of the steering wheel about three times before he turned to you, “I don’t know if I can drive.”
“What? You didn’t drink that much.” You mumbled against the passenger’s seat.
“Yeah but I still drank.” He studied your face. “And maybe I just don’t want to go home yet…”
“Me either.” You admitted.
“Let’s go on a walk.”
The alcohol in your system warmed your skin the entire evening, but once you were away from all the people and the warm atmosphere it did little to keep you from shivering. Wordlessly, Mingyu pulled you into his side, his warmth radiating off of him. You told him about all the times you rode your bike down this path when you were a kid. It was your first taste of freedom, your parents let you meet up with your friends at the pool almost every day after you turned 12.
That pool would eventually expand into a small water park where you would meet Mingyu several years later. The two of you stop walking right in front of the entrance to the park.
“We should break in.” You look up at Mingyu.
“What are you talking about?” He looked down at you, bewildered.
“Come on!” You grabbed his hand and he let you pull him toward the entrance. You fished your keys out of your pocket and stepped toward the front office.
“You know it’s not breaking in when you have keys, right?” He chuckled.
“Would you want Mr. Lloyd knowing you came in here after hours?” You cocked an eyebrow at him as the door creaked open.
“Great point!” He followed you into the dark office and shut the door behind him. The two of you fumbled through the small room. You could feel Mingyu following close behind you, his chest almost flush against your back. The cold doorknob was heavy in your hand as you opened the back door.
The water in the pools was still, you don’t remember a time where there weren’t patrons splashing around. You stood in the doorway and watched the reflection of the moon on the surface of the water. Mingyu’s breathing was the only sound you could hear for miles. A serene moment that you wanted to hold on to. Your eyes scanned the park, remembering all the summers you’ve spent here.
“You okay?” Mingyu whispered, seemingly not wanting to break the moment either. You turn to him, surprised by his proximity, and nod. The lifeguard chair near the kiddie pools stood tall, contrasting against the inky sky.
“Remember when they got the slides?” You asked, walking toward the row of water slides. Mingyu jogged to catch up with you.
“Yeah it was like, the year before we started here right?” He glanced from the slides to you.
“Yup!” You popped the P, “Mr. Stewart got mad that King’s Island got a water park.” You laughed.
“Oh yeah!” The two of you arrived at the base of the biggest slide, “Weird thing to be mad about considering this was a neighborhood pool and that is a theme park.”
“A theme park that’s three hours away!” You laughed.
“He really thought a few slides would get us on that level.” Mingyu shook his head. “Have you ever tried any of them?”
“The summer we got them, yeah.” You walked behind the slides.
“I never did,” He admitted sheepishly and followed closely behind you.
“Do it now.” You challenged, stopping in your tracks and turning to face him. He took a step back from you.
“What? Are you crazy?” He chuckled awkwardly.
“Unless you’re too chicken.” You shrugged.
“I’ll do the kiddie slide.” He ran toward the smaller slide. “My students love it, it can’t be that bad.” He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks.
“You’re such a child!” You shouted. “Too easy!” Mingyu climbed to the top of the slide. He peeked over the side at you.
“You won’t let me drown, right?”
“You’re literally taller than the slide, Kim.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
“Okay but what if I fall?” Mingyu wrung his hands together, he had never looked smaller.
“Again, taller than the slide.” You reminded him. With that Mingyu took a deep breath and sat down onto the stream of water trickling down the slide.
“Here I go…” He mumbled. He pushed off from the top and was in the water in less than ten seconds. Mingyu was almost tall enough to stand straight up in the shallow water where the slide deposited him. His head popped up above the surface, “I don’t get why they love that so much, it’s kind of lame.”
“For a third time, you’re taller than the slide.” You moved toward where he was in the water. “Much more exciting for someone who isn’t six foot something.” He pulled himself out of the water and grabbed you and pulled you into a hug. You didn’t even have time to think about what was happening before the water seeped into your clothes. “Mingyu Kim!” You squealed.
“What?” He squeezed you tighter. “I’m just so happy you’re here!” You attempted to escape him but he held you tight. He wiped his arms onto the back of your shirt for good measure before he let you go.
“You’re the worst.” You informed him as he shook out his hair, looking like a puppy as he continued to splatter you with water.
“I could have pulled you in, you should really be thanking me.” He pushed his hair back away from his forehead.
“Whatever.” You plop down on a deck chair. You watched Mingyu as he walked over to take the chair next to yours. His shirt stuck to his chest and his jeans looked like they weighed a ton. There was a stretch of comfortable silence, you watched the sky and thought about what to say next.
“This might be my last summer here.”
“I almost got stuck on the slide.” The two of you spoke at the same time. You looked at each other and he sat up quickly. “What did you say?” He sounded almost panicked.
“I might not be here next summer…” You sat up, your knee brushed against his. He didn’t move. “I’m graduating and I’ll be interviewing for real jobs.”
“God,” he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “As soon as I’m maybe not super terrified to tell you how I feel, you’re leaving.”
“What?” You sputtered.
“What?” He looked at you with wide eyes.
“How you feel about what, Kim?” You narrowed your eyes at him.
“Would you hit me if I said you?” He attempted to joke, but he was clearly so nervous it didn’t land.
“No I don’t think so…” You dropped your voice to a whisper as if you two were about to share the biggest secret. But his confession never came. He leaned forward with a rush of confidence and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was swift, but first kisses didn’t happen every day, so you wouldn’t forget it quickly.
“He pisses me off.” You muttered to yourself while you folded towels.
“Who?” Hitomi piped up from behind the dryer in the employee laundry room. She followed your line of sight, leading directly to Mingyu. Mingyu who was laughing with Ms. Owens, her hand on his muscular arm. “Oh.”
“She’s so sleazy, who tries to fuck her kid’s teacher?” You slammed the towel down on the pile.
“Wait, I thought we were mad at Mingyu?” Hitomi looked at you. “Why are we mad at Mingyu again?”
“You remember a few weeks ago?” You looked over to her. “When I was his fake date for that teacher thing?” Hitomi nodded. “He kissed me.”
“What?” She covered her mouth with her hands. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“Well it clearly never meant anything to him.” You sighed. “So what’s the point in making a big deal out of it?” You didn’t give her a chance to respond before you were pushing out the door towards the lifeguard chair.
“Mr. Kim, you’re just so good with Samantha and her friends!” Ms. Owens gushed.
“Lesson slot starts in two minutes, Mr. Kim.” You interrupted as you passed by them and informed Wonwoo of the shift change. You could feel Mingyu’s eyes on you as you climbed up the chair.
You clenched your jaw through Mingyu’s lesson. If looks could kill Mingyu would have been dead 44 minutes ago. You jump down from the lifeguard chair and begin storming toward the employees only area again. A large hand wraps around your wrist before you get too far and he pulls you until you turn toward him.
“Are you mad at me, Cherry?” Mingyu looks down at you with large eyes.
“No.” You spat.
“Well that was a lie…” He muttered. “Were you about to ditch popsicles?”
“I don’t have time for that, Kim.” You rolled your eyes.
“You always have time for popsicles.” He blinked at you. He was still holding your wrist and suddenly it was all too much.
“Mingyu, this needs to stop.” You whisper. “We can’t keep pretending, you’re not mine. It shouldn’t matter that you’re flirting with Ms. Owens. But it hurts.” His gaze grew confused as he listened to you talk.
“What?” He blurted.
“This has to stop, I can’t take it, not when kissed me and then acted like it never happened.”
“Acted like it never happened…” He repeated quietly. “Y/N I thought you were my girlfriend.” You blinked at him, wondering where he could have possibly gotten that. Twisting the wrist Mingyu had in his grasp you grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the employees area, you moved through the laundry room and pushed open the door to the lifeguard office. You know the shift schedule at this point in the summer so you knew no one would be in there at that moment.
“Talk.” You let go of his wrist.
“You’re gonna burn my skin off if you keep gripping it like that, shit.” He rubbed his reddening skin with his hand. “I don’t have much to say, I dunno,” he shrugged. “We both pretty much told each other we like each other.”
“Mingyu no we didn’t.”
“Didn’t we?” He stepped closer to you. “I said I wanted to tell you how I feel and then you kissed me.”
“What?” You laughed at the absurdity of it all. “You kissed me!”
“Same difference,” he smiled, “I wasn’t flirting with Mrs. Owens. I was telling her that Samantha is doing well in class, and she was trying to flirt with me.”
“Trying?” You put your hands on his hips and pulled him closer to you.
“Yeah, I was too preoccupied with looking at you.” He leans in closer to you.
“Mingyu, are you hard already?”
“Yeah kinda,” he blushed, “You were either gonna yell at me or kiss me, and honestly, both pretty exciting.”
“You have 10 minutes, Kim.” He smashes his lips to yours. He lifted you up and plopped you on the desk. You pull him to you, spreading your legs for him to stand between. His hands itched to touch you more, but he settled for resting them on your hips. You tangled your hands in his shaggy hair and pulled lightly on the strands at the nape of his neck.
He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth and bit down lightly. A whine escaped your lips and Mingyu ate it out of your mouth as he dove back into the kiss. Your lips were sure to be kiss bruised and you knew Chan would notice your absence at the snack bar.
“Mingyu,” you breathed, pushing back on his chest. He chased you as you attempted to speak to him. “Mingyu.”
“What baby?” Your head swam at the pet name.
“I need to relieve Nako.”
“Fuck,” he ran a hand through his messy hair. “Ten minutes isn’t very long.” You hopped off the desk and shamelessly raked your eyes over his body.
“Take care of that before you let anyone see you.” You eyed his dick and laughed, leaving him alone in the office.
“Are you sure you can’t come with us, Honey?” Your mom leaned on the doorway of your bedroom.
“Nah,” you folded your shirt and put it into one of your suitcases. “I have work tomorrow.”
“Okay, well we should be back pretty late so don’t wait up, get some rest.” She and your dad left the house soon after and you were alone, just to pack and go to bed. You placed a CD into your stereo in your room and got to work.
A few hours later most of your laundry was done and packed, just stuff you absolutely need for the next few days. You stop the music and bound downstairs to get a snack. While you were rifling around the drawers in the kitchen there was a knock at the door.
You put your eye to the peep hole and suddenly it was as if you were 17 again. Mingyu was standing on your porch shifting his weight from foot to foot. The scene was almost identical to when he was the only person you knew (besides Soonyoung) with a car and he offered to drive you to the park staff get together at the mini golf course in the next town over.
He straightened up as you opened the door. He smiled widely and visibly relaxed when he saw it was you.
“I had a whole thing prepared for your mom.” He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Go on then.” You crossed your arms over your chest. He took a deep breath.
“Hi Mrs. Y/L/N. Is Y/N home? I’d really like to talk to her. See? The whole thing.”
“Oh yes, very well prepared.” You teased, stepping aside to give him room to step into the house.
“I really do think we should talk.” Mingyu told you over his shoulder as he moved past you.
“Well, yeah,” you closed the door. “You can’t lie to my mom like that.” You led him upstairs to your bedroom, which only struck you as slightly embarrassing as you entered the room and saw your Backstreet Boys posters from high school.
“Nice decor” Mingyu chuckled.
“Listen–”
“I knew you when these guys came on the scene, no use denying your obsession.” He pointed out taking a seat on your bed like the two of you had done this a million times.
“Okay, don’t mention this and I won’t tell Soonyoung about the Clueless poster you had in your employee locker in ‘96.” You sat next to him, close enough for your knee to brush his. He looked at you with wide eyes and a blush creeping up on his neck. “What? I notice things.” You shrugged.
“Not everything.” He mumbled, not looking at you.
“What?” You blinked at him.
“I’ve liked you since the second summer.” He blurted. “I want you to be my girlfriend, I’ve wanted that for seven years, maybe even the full eight if I think hard enough about how you made me feel the first time we talked and I know I need to ask you properly but I get scared and dumb and–”
“I’ll be your girlfriend.”
“What?”
“I thought I made it pretty clear that I like you in the office the other day.” You shrugged.
“God, I am so stupid.” He scrubbed his face with his hand.
“A little bit.” You pulled his hand away from his face and his body toward you. You pressed your lips to his for the third time in the last month. Mingyu didn’t waste time deepening the kiss and began greedily licking into your mouth. He held you as if he was afraid you might turn to dust at any moment. Carefully he pulled you into his lap.
“Are your parents home?” He breathed between kisses.
“No, no. Not for a while.” You chased his lips. He crashed his mouth back to yours at your answer and confirmation that the two of you were alone in the house. His tongue explored your mouth as his hands began to roam your body. You couldn’t help but whine at the feeling of his strong hands on your waist, your thighs, your breasts.
Mingyu felt all encompassing, everything else melted away. You felt him grow hard under you, the feeling going straight to your core. Experimentally you rolled your hips against his length. This earned you a whine from the man under you.
“God, baby,” he was breathless and his hands were firmly on your hips guiding you to continue the roll of your hips. Pleasure mounted in your stomach as you weakly stimulated your clit with his clothed cock. He whined at the friction, it wasn’t enough, he wanted to feel you with no barriers. He carefully laid down against your pillows, pulling you on top of him. He nipped at your lips and let his hands wander down to the swell of your ass. For a moment he just rested his large hands there, reveling in the feeling of finally being able to have you like this. Soon he was fiddling with the hem of your tiny Soffe shorts.
“Take them off.” You mumbled into his mouth. He ran his thumbs under the elastic band and swiftly shucked them off of your body. HIs hands returned to your ass as you slowly continued to drag your clothed cunt over the hard bulge in his basketball shorts. You felt like a teenager again, dry humping in your childhood bedroom.
Mingyu’s hand drifted down, padding the wet patch of arousal on your underwear from behind. He let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a grunt at the feeling of you being wet for him. His fingers stroked your heat through your panties, making you whine.
“Baby, Cherry,” He panted, “take these off, please.”
“You’re fully clothed, that’s not fair.” You didn’t stop the movement of your hips.
“Y/N,” his voice became gravely, “you can have me any way you want me soon, but I need to taste you.” His pupils were blown. “Sit on my face, baby, please I need it.”
“Beg for me.”
“Y/N” Mingyu moaned your name in the most delicious way you had ever heard. He bucked his hips to meet the roll of yours and it almost sent your eyes to the back of your head. You could feel how big he was through layers of clothing. “Please baby, I want to make you feel good, I want to taste you,” He groaned.
You sat up, still grinding on his length. Mingyu began trying to help you out of your underwear, it took some maneuvering and you ultimately had to stop moving so you could get them off. He helped you up to his face and positioned you right above his mouth. “You’re so beautiful.” He marveled quietly into your glistening cunt.
He pulled your hips toward him until you felt him lick the first fat stripe up your cunt. You whined at the contact, he was warm. He ran his tongue through your folds, mixing your arousal with his spit, making a mess but he didn’t care. Experimentally, he dipped into your entrance shallowly. You gasped as his tongue pumped slowly in and out and his nose bumped your clit. The stimulation had you reaching out to steady yourself on your headboard.
Sensing your reaction Mingyu continued to pump his tongue into your entrance, now attempting to get deeper and draw more sounds out of you. You felt the heat licking your insides and tightening the knot in your stomach. Mingyu pulled away from you just slightly, you whined at the loss of warmth. “Ride my face.” He grunted below you and dove back in. He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. The sounds filling the room were nothing short of obscene. You felt your high rapidly approaching and then he pulled back again. “I need you to cum on my tongue.”
He began to tongue fuck you again, his nose bumping your clit. You began to buck your hips, increasing the stimulation. Mingyu was moaning shamelessly into your cunt which only spurred you on. Your body felt like it was on fire in the most delicious way. Suddenly the thread snapped and you cried out in pleasure. Mingyu lapped up everything you gave him as you rode out your high.
Mingyu took you in his arms and rolled you onto your back. You looked up at him, his mouth and chin were slick with you. Butterflies erupted in your stomach at the visual. He smoothed your hair with his hand, “you did so well for me.”
“Want you, Gyu.” You cradled his face in your hands.
“About that,” a scarlet blush decorated his tan skin, “I didn’t think this is how this would go, I didn’t bring a condom or anything…”
“Oh, no worries.” You wiggled out of his grasp and crossed the room. You dug through some boxes from your apartment. You pulled out a small box and spilled the contents into your hand. You turn to him and shake the packet. “I gotcha covered.”
“Why do you have condoms?” He sat up in your bed.
“I’m a college girl.” You shrugged. “You wanna fuck me or not?” You pulled your shirt over your head, now completely bare for him.
“Oh my God” He groaned, “you’re gonna be the death of me.” He hopped out of bed and ripped off his shirt. You always assumed you knew what he looked like under the tank tops he wore in the pool for lessons, and you were pretty much right. But it was one thing to imagine Mingyu, it was another thing to actually see his body.
You moved past him, raking your nails across his toned stomach on your way, and sat on the bed. He fumbled with his shorts, getting his foot stuck in the process and almost fell flat on his face. Steadying himself he pulls down his boxers, his cock springing free. He’s big, you felt that earlier, but it still surprised you.
He crawled over you and kissed you again. His lips moved slowly, savoring you. He tasted like you, but you didn’t care. The feeling of desire quickly returned in your stomach and between your legs. You felt the pads of his fingers swipe through your folds as he kissed you, you felt a bit sensitive but you didn’t care. Slowly, he sunk a finger into you and you arched your back at the feeling. He began to work you open for him. Soon a second finger was inserted and he quickly found the spot inside of you that had you seeing stars.
“Mingyu, please.” You whined. “Fuck me.” He looked at your fucked out face and removed his fingers from you. He didn’t break eye contact as he put his fingers in his mouth and licked them clean.
“If you insist, baby.” He bit his lip. He busied himself with opening the condom and rolling it down his length. You opened your legs wider for him and he felt like he could cum untouched. He lined himself up with your entrance and slowly pushed himself in. The stretch was obvious even from the first push. “I got you,” Mingyu encouraged.
He bottomed out and stayed still, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was delicious, you thought you could feel him in your stomach.
“Gyu,” you mumbled.
“Yes, pretty?”
“Move for me.” He didn’t need to be told twice, he carefully began to thrust into you. You felt every drag against your walls, “Mmm, Gyu you fill me so well, I feel so full.” You breathed. His cock jumped inside of you at the praise and a moan escaped him.
“I won’t last long if you keep talking like that.” He grunted between thrusts.
“Maybe I don’t want you to,” you felt yourself tumbling all too quickly to a second orgasm. He picked up his pace, pounding into you. He buried his face in your neck and desperately chased his high. He began sucking hickies into your soft skin, a desperate mix of lips, tongue, and teeth. You tangled your fingers through his hair in an attempt to anchor yourself.
Mingyu’s hips sputtered and his thrusts became erratic. He snaked a hand between your bodies and began rubbing tight circles around your clit. Your pleasure mounted and you knew you would snap soon too. Mingyu thrusted into you and whined at the pleasure of release. He rode it out as he continued to stimulate the bundle of nerves.
“Cum for me baby, please.” He breathed into your ear. You screwed your eyes shut and felt yourself tumble over the edge of your second orgasm. “That’s my girl, there you go.” Mingyu cooed. He let you ride his cock and he made a few more passes at your clit before pulling away from your neck and looking at you.
“Hi.” You whispered.
“Hey,” he whispered back with a smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” You nodded and directed him where your towels are. He grabbed a small one and disappeared down the hall for a moment before returning with the towel wet with warm water. He carefully cleaned the mess between your legs and leaned over to place a kiss on your cunt.
You watched as he moved through your room, depositing the towel in your laundry basket and carefully removing the condom, tying it up and placing it in your trashcan under some other trash. He came back and joined you in the bed. His strong hands massaged out your things and you could feel your eyes getting heavy. Mingyu hummed to himself as he watched your tired form melt into the warm bed.
“Oh my God!” Your eyes snapped open.
“What?” Mingyu panicked. “What’s wrong?”
“You need to leave! My parents will be home soon!”
“Shit!” Mingyu jumped up and gathered the clothes he discarded earlier. He was dressed in seconds flat. “Bye! I love you!” He realized what he said but didn’t correct himself as he was flying out the door.
“He’s gonna freak out.”
“When does he not? He's Soonyoung.”
“He’s gonna do that thing where he screams at me and like vibrates.” You run a hand through Mingyu’s hair, trying to soothe him. He leaned into your touch and hummed contentedly.
“He’s gonna find out eventually, might as well rip off the bandaid.” You suggested. Mingyu nodded and took your hand. The two of you approached the door to Soonyoung’s apartment where he was hosting the yearly end of summer employee party. Music was already spilling out the door and Soonyoung was probably already drunk.
You pushed through the front door, he always kept it open for parties in case he didn’t hear someone knock. The lights inside the apartment were low and the music pretty much smacked you in the face upon entry. There was a makeshift bar on the kitchen table, lines of bottles and red solo cups strewn about.
Hitomi smiled at you from her seat, a pleasant buzz and Nako in her lap prevented her from getting up to greet you. You watched as her eyes traveled from you to the person who entered the apartment behind you. Her eyes went wide and flashed back to you.
“Are you with him?” She mouthed to you from across the room. You nodded at her with a smirk. She leaned forward to whisper in Nako’s ear who immediately looked at you as well. The two girls jumped from their seat and hurried over to you. “We’re borrowing her!” Hitomi squealed at Mingyu before dragging you to a quieter corner in the kitchen.
“What the hell?” Nako exclaimed, alcohol making her a bit bolder. “When did that happen?”
“Uh, like two nights ago.” You told them as you began to pour yourself a drink.
“Um, hello?” Hitomi demanded, “tell us everything! I can’t believe you didn’t call me!” You picked up your cup and turned to her.
“When you were gonna tell me you were dating Nako?” You cocked an eyebrow. A blush creeped over Hitomi’s round cheeks.
“I-” she hesitated.
“We’ve been together for a year.” Nako chimed in. “I thought everyone just knew.” You coughed into your drink.
“A year!” You sputtered.
“Now you tell us your thing!” Hitomi deflected.
“Mingyu came over and fucked me two nights ago.” You said matter of factly. Hitomi and Nako barely had time to react before Soonyoung entered the kitchen and dragged you all back to the party. Hitomi reclaimed their seat together and you found Mingyu talking to Wonwoo. You offered him a sip of your drink. Mingyu took it and took a hearty swig.
“This is strong, what happened in there, Cherry?” His cheeks heated as the alcohol settled in his stomach. You rolled up to your tiptoes to lean into Mingyu’s ear.
“Nako and Hitomi have been dating for a year.” You whispered.
“No shit! Really?” Mingyu glanced at them and put his arm around your waist to steady you. He barely had his hands on you before Soonyoung was yelling and pointing from across the room.
“Did Mingyu Kim finally do it?” He shouted, drawing everyone’s attention to the two of you. “We’ve only been waiting since 1992!”
Mingyu looked down at you and shrugged. He pressed a sweet kiss to your lips which was met with the sounds of cheers from around the room.
one thing i really liked straight off the bat was how you built up their relationship in the beginning before we actually got to see them interact. i think it sets up their dynamic so well, and it lowk makes their first interaction hit a little harder because we already get the tension in the background (dramatic irony baby!!)
and the detaaaails. the background of the nickname cherry!! hoshi low-key being a milf hunter!!!! mingyu coming off as a shy sweetheart!!!!!!! and the miscommunication was like. genuinely just funny i was cracking up at mingyu being like wait you ARENT my gf??????
the whole thing was very sweet and summery and i love your characters and all the little side character cameos (lee chan i love u). your writing is so very natural bennie, and it encapsulates the sweetest feelings AGHH loved it
summary: okay, so you dropped out of law school. and you need a job. and the only job your wildly specific resume can get you is… lifeguard at the local 3.2-star water park, and the person assigned to supervise you at your new post is the mysterious and gorgeous yoon jeonghan. what could possibly go wrong?
🛟 pairing: jeonghan x f!reader
🛟 warnings: angst, fluff, crack, mature content, alcohol and drug use, making out, dropping out of school/feelings of failure, law school, jeonghan and co. are shitheads, mentions of poop/pee (but not urine/fecal play). part one is pretty tame; part two will have most of the action.
🛟 word count: 5.4k (for part one)
🛟 note: this is part of the Carat Bay Collab, hosted by the wonderful @camandemstudios -- thank you endlessly for hosting my first-ever collab! i loved writing jeonghan. he is deliciously evil
——
No one plans to drop out of law school.
Getting there is hard enough. You basically lived in the library for all four years of your undergrad degree, sacrificing clubbing in Hongdae and weekend trips to Busan in service of your flawless GPA. Then came the LSAT—not that you needed it, with a resume stacked with elite unpaid internships and glowing letters of recommendation from the professors whose offices you'd stalked and asses you'd kissed. And then, as if all of that weren't enough to deter the average, clueless twenty-something, you left a permanent indentation in your desk chair with all the nights you spent refining your personal statement, practicing admissions interviews in the mirror, and scouring admissions forums for grains of advice.
This is not to mention all the collateral damage. The cost of applications, of deposits to secure your seat, of admission to testing centers. Mouth guards, to protect the teeth you started grinding in your sleep. The friendships you let wither and rot while you pulled yet another all-nighter at the study cafe.
Anyway. After all of that, you think, dropping out of law school seems like a psychotic thing to do. Something something sunk cost fallacy—the cost of getting to the threshold alone is enough to convince most people to see it through.
The thing is... you're not most people.
The thing about you is that you're impulsive. Impatient. You feel every feeling in your bones, pressing against the inside of your skin, expanding until there's no room left inside you to hold it all. You feel everything fast, immediate, the urge to act cracking open your ribs and tingling in your fingertips.
So no one could have seen it coming, really. Least of all you. You just decided, halfway through your second semester—quite literally halfway, right in the middle of an interminable lecture on easements—that enough was enough. Stood up and walked to the registrar's office and informed them you were dropping out, and that was that. (Well—you'd had to work through a fair bit of paperwork first, and also had to sit through a meeting with the dean and wade through a bunch of other bureaucratic bullshit before they actually let you drop out, but that's beside the point.)
So May found you without a calling, without a place to live, and without the slightest desire to call your parents and let them know that you've dishonored the family name and irreparably tarnished their reputation, forever and ever amen. About a week of doom-scrolling and panic-researching revealed that all your stupid political science undergrad degree qualified you for were (a) unpaid government internships and (b) lifeguard at the water park, and you'd rather stick your head in wet concrete than work in government. So... water park it was.
Perfect, really. A seasonal job, so you won't get too complacent. A bummy one, at that. It pays enough to cover your rent, and you get lunch free at the snack bar, and unlike most of the other amusement hellscapes in the area, the staff members aren't pubescent.
One half-assed phone interview and quarter-assed Zoom water safety session later, you're officially hired as the new Big Waterslide lifeguard at Carat Bay for the summer.
"That's Aquatic Safety Supervisor to you," some guy named Seungkwan corrects, when you swing by to introduce yourself and pick up your uniform. He hands you the outfit you're meant to wear—a cherry red tank, respectable white shorts, a visor with CARAT BAY printed on it in bold lettering. "This job may seem lightweight to you, but it is not for the faint of heart."
"Whatever," you mumble under your breath, stowing the uniform into your bag.
After all, you once studied to become a lawyer. And, sure, you dropped out, but you'd survived long enough to have been through the wringer—ruthless cold calls, the hellish Socratic method, competitive hotheads who wouldn't hesitate to stab a classmate in the back (or tear a critical page out of a casebook) if it meant landing a white shoe internship.
How hard could working at Carat Bay possibly be?
——
In hindsight, you think the decision to have you wait to meet your coworker until the first day was intentional.
You can spot guys like Jeonghan from a mile away. A less perceptive person might think they're innocuous. Unproblematic. After all, he's got that zoned-out look down to a science. Has mastered the distant stare, the vaguely unfocused gaze. He's pretty, but not in an overt or obnoxious way. Seems shy, even, the way he avoids eye contact and keeps his mouth shut.
It's all a ploy. That much is clear when you show up at nine AM on your first day, as instructed, to start chlorinating pools and folding towels and powering on the waterslides, and as you're taking a hose to the long-neglected pool chairs, Jeonghan sidles up beside you and says, "Blowhole."
You take your hand off the trigger. "What?"
"Blowhole." He reaches over, pries the hose from you, and starts jetting away months' worth of accumulated dirt and debris himself. "We're holding an unofficial contest to rename the waterslide."
"Um, okay."
He finishes off the last pool chair. Turns to you. "This is the part when you ask what the winner gets."
You just blink at him. He sighs, put upon, and pats your shoulder in a way that suddenly makes you feel violent.
"The winner," he says, voice dropping to a low murmur, "gets Seungcheol the Lobster."
You follow his gaze to the merch stand. Which, honestly, is a generous term for what it is—it's a couple of sunglasses displays, a wooden counter that's seen better days, and a few shelves featuring branded pool towels, floaties, and other aquatic paraphernalia. On top of the shelves sits a gigantic stuffed lobster. It's garishly red, with claws bigger than your head, and has eyes that aren't sewn in quite right—lopsided, maybe.
"Seungcheol?"
Another sigh, which you imagine would make most people feel dumb. But, again, you're not most people. "Yes, baby. Seungcheol. Named after our boss."
You've caught glimpses of it here and there in your hour or so within the walls of Carat Bay, but this is the moment it finally sinks in. All of these guys have a history. They're not just part-timers slumming it while they figure out their next move. Not reluctant relatives or pimply teenagers or perpetually stoned college dropouts. No—they're a family. A bunch of guys who actually like each other, and actually like running a water park. (For the rest of the year, the place transforms into an outdoor swim school with heated pools, and they run that operation, too.)
So, the lobster's name is Seungcheol, and it's just another one of a million inside jokes you're not privy to. You didn't even grow up here, in the weird little college town that's home to nothing but this water park and the campus where you formerly attended law school. You have zero context, not a square inch of common ground with these people who are, evidently, content to mop pool decks and scoop shaved ice for a living.
You could ask, but decide against it. Instead, you snatch the hose back from Jeonghan and start walking it toward the spigot.
"Blowhole is a terrible name for a waterslide," you say out loud, to no one in particular.
—
Lunch rolls around, and it doesn't take long for you to realize why the lobster is named after the Boss.
You and some guy named Junhui are exchanging painfully stilted small talk over some snack bar sandwiches when the door to the break room slams open and Seungcheol storms in, vein throbbing in his temple.
"Everything okay, boss?" says Jihoon, not even looking up, head still buried in the fridge.
"How did he—" you start to ask Junhui, but he just shakes his head, eyes widening in warning.
"Somebody forgot to order plastic spoons for the snack stand." Seungcheol shakes his head, storming into the tiny office off the kitchen that stores a desk, a chair, and a computer that was last sold in the mid-2000s. "Not a single spoon. I have a bunch of moms ready to tar and feather me. Can you imagine feeding a kid shaved ice with a fork?"
Red. Red in the face, scarlet from his chest to his hairline. Lobster. Seungcheol the Lobster. You used to fly through three-hour issue spotter exams and craft searing research papers on police brutality, and now you're sitting here feeling proud that you've deduced the lore behind a stuffed lobster. You extract the tomato from your sandwich, let it drop with a wet smack onto the wax paper.
"And you!"
You jump in your seat. Seungcheol, parked behind his computer while it powers on with all the vigor of a senile retiree, points at you.
"New kid! Why aren't you at the Big Waterslide?"
Jihoon finally yanks himself out of the fridge, nothing but a Coke in hand. "I thought we agreed to call it the Squirtmaster."
"We are not—"
"I'm on my lunch break," you interject. "Thirty minutes."
"Better make that fifteen, new kid." Seungcheol jerks his chin out the window, where the Big Waterslide is just barely visible, a blue spiral in the distance. "Jeonghan's made four kids cry in a row. Their moms are leaving one-star Yelp reviews."
"How do you know they were about Jeonghan?" Junhui asks.
Seungcheol just fixes the three of you with a look, unamused. "They said, and I quote, the gangly kid who looks like Pleakley from Lilo and Stitch freaks out my kids."
Message received. You're not, like, a huge fan of kids, but surely you can do better than whatever Jeonghan's doing, so you shove the remaining triangle of your sandwich into your mouth and get to your feet.
The morning had gone okay. Mornings, you've been told, are slow—kids still rolling out of bed, forced to attend summer school, parents running errands. It's not until after lunch that the admission queue snakes into the parking lot and Chan starts making panicked transmissions over the walkie talkies, asking if three-years-past-expiration coupons are okay to accept (they're not) or whether the park uses filtered water in its showers (not unless Seungcheol won the lottery overnight, and even then) or hey has anyone seen a single red Croc floating in the lazy river (Seungcheol scoops out the lost-and-founds with a net after closing and dumps it all into the garbage, so unless Chan wants to go digging through the bins himself, he'd better stop asking stupid questions)?
So the afternoon comes around, and with it a flood of unsupervised, unwashed, and unmitigated disasters in Finding Nemo swim trunks and Elsa tankinis. The moms set up camp on the Adirondack chairs, rub entire handfuls of SPF 50 onto their offspring, and unleash them upon the world, and you climb up into your lifeguard perch and just hope that no one manages to drown on your watch.
All things considered, your job shouldn’t be difficult. Jeonghan does most of the leg work, arguing with the teenaged rats who want to go three at a time and the helicopter moms who insist on holding their six-year-olds in their laps on the way down. All you have to do is sit there, blowing the whistle and shouting at the occasional shithead.
The waterslide is shut down unceremoniously at two PM by a screaming kid who insists that his brother pooped in the shallow end. While Seungcheol and Mingyu shut off the water and inspect the pool, Jeonghan meanders down to your perch. Shit-eating grin and all.
“Watch out,” he says, looking deliciously thrilled in a way that does not bode well, not at all. “The Sons are here.”
“What?” You keep your sunglasses on, hoping they’ll mask the scowl on your face. You know guys like Jeonghan. You’ve clocked him, mentally written him off as someone you won’t even bother with. Guys like him like to tease, push all the buttons they can reach just to get a rise out of someone, because they’re not worth remembering otherwise. You refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“The Sons,” he repeats. “Son Heejun, Son Minjun, Son Taejun. Aged fifteen, fourteen, and thirteen, respectively.” He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “And you know what their favorite attraction is?”
You don’t answer, because you suspect he’ll tell you anyway.
“The Urethra, baby.” He gestures, sweeping and grand, at the blue spiral in front of you. “And the last time they were here, Seungcheol threatened to get them banned for life because he caught them all waterboarding each other in the deep end.”
You choke on your water, just as Seungcheol shouts from your other side—“We are not calling it the Urethra!”
Jeonghan flaps his hand in the air, shooing him off. “Whatever.”
“Why didn’t he?”
Jeonghan looks up. God, he’d be cute if he weren’t so irritating. “What?”
“Why didn’t Seungcheol ban them?”
Jeonghan snorts. “Because their dad is our biggest—scratch that—our only investor, and we have yet to turn a real profit, and without his connections in the city’s health department, this place would be shut down tomorrow.”
That’s not reassuring at all, not in the slightest. But it makes sense, so you just nod. “Okay. So….”
“So… here.” Jeonghan hands you something. It takes you a moment to process that it’s a spray bottle. The kind your grandmother used to use to fix your hair in the morning, the kind you have at home to water your plants. The liquid in it, however—
“Jeonghan,” you screech. “Is this pee?”
“Relax,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. “It’s just yellow food coloring, but the Sons don’t know that. Just threaten to spritz them if they get too out of hand. But only use it when you think you can manage it. Otherwise….” He jabs a thumb behind his shoulder toward the snack bar, where Seungcheol is currently wiping down the counter with the sweaty, spread-thin aura of a single mother. “Make Seungcheol deal with them.”
“Ten-four.” You swallow, sticking the spray bottle in the cupholder of your seat. “Um… thanks, Jeonghan.”
He winks, all greasy and knowing, and all the warm and fuzzies between you evaporate instantly. “Don’t mention it, babe.”
—
The Sons are easy to clock. You spot three bleached-blond heads in matching purple swim trunks from a mile away, shoving and roughhousing their way up the steps to the top of the Urethra. (Once it reopens, of course. They never did find the poop, which is a reassuring thought until it's not.)
The Son boys are annoying, but not that much more intolerable than any other customer. In fact, it’s relatively peaceful—that is, until Seungkwan marches over to you in flip-flops and oversized sunglasses, hands on his hips. You're starting to discover that the hard part of your job isn't necessarily the job itself. It’s that you're a sitting duck, stuck in your little perch and beholden to the whims of those coming and going below. Forced to converse and make nice, whether you like it or not.
"Hey, Seungkwan," you say after a minute, breaching the awkward silence. "What brings you to the lifeguard stand?"
Seungkwan huffs, pushing his sunglasses up on top of his head. "Aquatic Safety Supervisor Post," he corrects. "I've been dispatched to inform you that you are required by law to take a ten-minute break in the next hour."
"Okay, I knew that." You blink down at him, puzzled. "Remember? You gave me a thirty-minute lecture on workplace regulations this morning while I hosed down the uri—"
"Yeah, yeah, and," Seungkwan sighs, looking like he can't believe he has to deal with you, "Seungcheol would like to meet with you during your ten-minute break. He'll be in the break room."
"Wait a minute." You cross your arms. "If he's co-opting my break to have a boss-to-employee, work-related conversation, doesn't that mean it's not technically a—"
"Oh, for the love of God, will you just go talk to the man? Be my assistant manager, he said, I promise I won't make your life miserable, he said! Well, here I am! Miserable! Do you know what it's like when he's asked you to go through every invoice from the last six months to find the one discrepancy that's throwing off our entire balance sheet—meanwhile he's all up in my ear saying Seungkwan do this, Seungkwan do that? Do you know what that's like? Do you?"
You blink. Take a sip of the now-lukewarm and flat Diet Coke next to you. "Um, okay. I'll find Seungcheol."
"Thank you."
You keep an eagle eye on the Sons for the next hour. One in which they insist on getting back in the queue for the Urethra over and over again. Save a brief moment in which it appears the middle one is forcibly dunking the youngest underwater, they behave. You don't even have to whip out the spray bottle.
When you decide you can't avoid it any longer, you radio up to Jeonghan to inform him you're going on your break and wave Junhui over from the snack bar to take over while you're gone. Once Jun's sat in your perch, you embark on your too-short trip to the front office, dread zipping up your throat.
You're not the type to worry about this kind of thing. You were never the kid who got sent to the principal's office, never got detention or failed a class. Never even came close. Now, though, you're concerned, because the look on Seungcheol's face as you approach isn't reassuring. You've done everything right, you think, so you can't imagine why he'd fire you.
Then again, you're the new kid. The scrub. It's not outside the realm of possibility that they've simply decided you don't fit in—that they've hired you as an experiment, and decided that you won't do, after all.
You take a seat in one of the metal chairs across from Seungcheol, trying to flatten your expression into something less terrified. "Um, you wanted to see me?"
"Yeah." He has his hands clasped together on the table, shoulders hiked up by his ears. Won't even look at you, eyes glassy and fixed on the scuffed plastic tabletop. Promising. "Um, so, about your position."
Great. So he is firing you. This has to be a world record of some kind. "Look, I just want to say—"
"—specifically, about your, um, coworker."
You blink at each other for a second. Clearly, you misread the situation. "Um, sorry. You were saying?" you prompt, wary.
"About, uh, Jeonghan." Seungcheol clears his throat, the tips of his ears burning. "You know. Um. He's, um."
You sit back in your seat, much more relaxed now that you know you're not on the chopping block. "Out with it, boss."
"He's just. He's single, right."
"I'm failing to see what this has to do with me."
Seungcheol buries his face in his hands. Groans like a kid who's been told Christmas is canceled. "Ugh. Fine. I'll dumb this down for you, but I'm only saying it once. Please do not date, fall in love with, or otherwise express romantic intentions for Yoon Jeonghan."
Your jaw drops to the floor. "Excuse me?"
"Look. It's not, like, strictly forbidden by the Carat Bay Employee Handbook, Fifth Edition, Section 8, subsection D, roman numeral v-eye-eye, but it makes my life difficult if I have to shuffle people around due to interpersonal issues—"
“I don’t know what I did that gave you the wrong idea—“
“You didn’t. You didn’t do anything. It’s Jeonghan I’m worried about, but try telling him what to do. I imagine the last time that went over well was 1998.”
You roll your eyes. “Still, I don’t know what would make you think—“
“He’s behaving, okay?” Seungcheol leans forward, looking genuinely crazed, and you gingerly scoot a half-inch away from the table. “Not a single customer complaint since you joined him at—fuck, whatever we’re calling that thing now—“
“The Urethra,” you supply, to which he just shoots you an unearthly glare.
“He’s making nice with customers. Hasn’t fucked around with a single one in the last four hours. It’s a miracle. I’ve prayed every night for a day like this, but it’s still a goddamn miracle.”
“Okay, but I don’t know why you think that has anything to do with me.”
He shrugs. “You’re the only independent variable in this equation. I did the math.”
Huh. Can't argue with that logic. You stand up, tugging at the brim of your visor. “Well, if that’s all—“
“Just—remember what I said, yeah?”
You look at Seungcheol, and—god. It’s amazing, the speed with which he goes from disgruntled manager to pleading beggar, his eyes taking on a rounded, puppy-dog shape that is, frankly, alarming. And off-putting. Fake ass bitch. Makes you want to do whatever it takes to ensure you’ll never see it again, which you think must be the point. You fight off a shudder. “Fine. Understood, boss.”
You’re unnerved. Unsettled. Unfortunately, you happen to know from your one point five semesters of law school that Seungcheol’s little lecture isn’t technically a violation of any employment laws. He’s well within his right to outlaw romantic relationships between his employees. It’s just… annoying. Makes your skin crawl with a weird, preemptive guilt, like you know you’re about to do something wrong and are just waiting to get caught.
As if you’d date Jeonghan. You’d sooner take a long nap at the bottom of the Urethra’s landing pool.
Thankfully, the rest of the afternoon goes by without further incident. The park closes its doors for the day at six PM, at which point Jeonghan takes the liberty of traveling back down to ground level via the Urethra. Lands with a massive cannonball splash at the end, and Mingyu pops his head out from the Lazy River to shout, “Eight points!”
You make it a point not to look at Seungcheol. God knows he’s seconds away from blowing an aneurysm, fighting every urge not to launch into a lecture on pool safety, and at this point it’ll do nothing but compound your own stress levels.
Jeonghan surfaces from underwater, hair glued to his head like strands of seaweed. “Hey, new kid,” he shouts, doggy paddling over to the edge of the pool. “Ready for quitting time?”
“The park closure protocol, Jeonghan,” Seungkwan snarks from behind you, arms full of stray pool noodles.
“Yeah. Okay. The park closure protocol.” Jeonghan pushes the wet hair out of his face and grins up at you. You pointedly do not think about what that does to your heartbeat. What it does to your cheeks. “Ready?”
You just nod. You’re not certain you trust yourself enough to speak—not when he looks like that. T-shirt clinging to every line on his body, eyelashes sticking together in tiny triangles that only make his eyes look bigger. His gigantic, stupid Disney prince eyes.
Stupid Jeonghan. Stupid Seungcheol, for putting stupid ideas in your head about your stupid coworker. You shake your head, physically dislodging the thought, before you start descending the ladder.
Jeonghan waits for you to get down before leading you to a network of metal pipes that look complicated and, honestly, way above your pay grade. One of them is wrapped with blue duct tape, which Jeonghan explains is for the Urethra—there’s a separate cleaning crew that comes through at night, but the staff are responsible for shutting off the water before leaving and turning it back on in the mornings.
Luckily, there’s no need for you to wash off and change before you head home. So while the others all head for the men’s locker rooms, you start heading for the break room to pick up your things.
“Hey! New kid!”
You grit your teeth and turn around. “It’s Y/N!”
“Sorry,” Jeonghan shouts. “Y/N.” He jogs over. “Where are you going?”
“Um, home.” You nod toward the front gates. “I clocked out already, so—“
“No, right. But.” Jeonghan glances over his shoulder, where the other guys are waiting with bated breath, dripping onto the pavement, looking like a pack of shivering, hosed-down puppies. “You should, um. Stick around for a bit. Let one of us walk you home?”
You avoid looking at him, fixing your eyes on the ground instead. “It’s fine. I really don’t live that far.”
You don’t. This part of town is kind of desolate, kind of creepy—just two apartment complexes, dirt-cheap because of the location, a single gas station, and the water park. But it's maybe a ten minute walk, and you’d gotten here this morning just fine.
Still, Jeonghan tilts his head at you, and if you didn’t know better you’d mistake that butter soft, gentle look in his eyes for genuine concern. “Hey. It’s not safe around here at night. Not a single one of us would let you walk home alone, trust me. Just—please. Please stick around. We’ll take you.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek. You suppose it is the right thing to do. After all, you’d just moved out of your on-campus apartment to this part of town. You don’t know shit about fuck around here, and Jeonghan really does seem worried for you. So you nod, and instead of scurrying out the gates with your tote bag you take a seat on one of the benches by the locker rooms, kicking around a stray bottle cap while the sounds of the guys laughing and slamming locker doors echo throughout the empty water park.
Jeonghan is the first to finish. He walks out with a backpack and damp hair, backlit by the slivers of remaining sun and the soft glow of the light outside the entrance, and it takes everything in you to tear your gaze away and stare at your shoes instead.
"Let's go," he says, nodding toward the exit. "The other guys will be a while."
You just get up and start walking, and after a minute you hear the slap of his flip-flops against the cement. You walk like that for a while, in complete and utter silence, save the sound of the cicadas wailing their song and the sound of his shoes, when all of a sudden he jogs a bit to catch up with you.
"So," Jeonghan says. "What brings you to Carat Bay?"
You chew on your cheek again. "I needed a job." Safest response. You don't need the pitying but surprised look people give you when you tell them you're a law school dropout. Don't need the outright pity when you tell them you're new in town, either.
"Okay. Why?"
You finally turn to look at him. He doesn't look like he's teasing. In fact, for the second time today, he looks one hundred percent serious. Sure, you'll bite. "I dropped out of law school, and my parents don't know, and I need to pay the bills."
To his credit, Jeonghan doesn't widen his eyes. Or laugh, or gasp, or give any reaction at all, really. Hardly even blinks. "Ah. I see. Seungcheol did mention that you were the only one who applied this summer who actually had a college degree listed on their resume."
He leaves it at that. Doesn't ask why you left law school, doesn't launch into a million other questions. He just... accepts it, it seems, dropping the subject as easily as he'd picked it up.
"While we're asking questions," you venture, turning the corner, "why are you at the water park? I mean—how did this all even start? You, Seungcheol, the guys.... Seems like you have a pretty good thing going."
Jeonghan laughs a little. The sound sparks something in your chest, something soft and affectionate. You immediately feel the urge to crush it with a forklift. "You're looking for our origin story. Well—Seungcheol and I knew each other from high school. He worked here starting his third year. His parents kept pushing him to apply to college, but he knew that wouldn't be his thing—he's never been interested in school or corporate life, you know?
"Eventually, the old guy who used to own and run this place, Mr. Byeon, retired. Left the whole place to Cheol because he had no kids and didn't want to sell it to some private equity company that would just fuck it up and sell it for parts. He hired a bunch of our friends from high school, and then a few people they knew, and eventually we built up to thirteen of us." He looks at you and winks, and you roll your eyes at him even though you're smiling. "Fourteen, if we count you.
"I didn't join until a bit later, but... we have a good thing going, all of us. We're not rich, but it's a million times better than some desk job and I like working with my friends. And... Cheol, he treats us well. He really does. Pays us enough that we make a decent living, and we get three days off a week. Pretty sweet gig, if you ask me."
You nod and walk along in silence for a while, pondering this. After a minute, you say, "Follow-up question?"
"Anything for you, baby."
You gag. "Ugh. Anyway. Why hire me, then? If the thirteen of you have been doing this together for so long?"
It's a valid question. They're all best friends. Have been running this business for years. In the eleven hours you've been working at Carat Bay, you haven't heard a single mention of any other coworker from years past. No indication at all that there was ever a fourteenth person on their staff, much less a woman member, which leads you to believe that you're the first.
Jeonghan stifles a laugh. "Have you seen our Yelp page?"
"Um, no."
He pulls out his phone, taps around for a bit, and presents you with Carat Bay's Yelp page, smile so big it threatens to tear through his cheeks. "Three point two stars, baby. And can you guess why?"
Cheol's little outburst at lunch gave you some clue, but you don't even have time to answer before Jeonghan launches into it for you.
"Me. I am singlehandedly responsible for each and every one-star review on this page, and I assure you there are many. Cheol can't handle the shame. He's left the page unclaimed for the last five years because of it."
You snort. "You can't possibly be responsible for every single one."
"Ah. Let's just say I'm mentioned in at least 99.9 percent of them. One particularly scathing review was left by a single mom who was very upset when one Kim Mingyu refused to accept her invitation to dinner. And by dinner, I mean a blowjob in the ladies' locker room."
You choke out a laugh at this. "Fair enough."
"Anyway. We hired you because Seungcheol was sick of me dragging down our Yelp rating, and he needed someone to babysit me. That's all."
Something about his answer is a little too casual. Flippant. But you don't have time to pry, because the two of you have already reached Pearl Villas, the three-story complex where you managed to procure a studio after getting unceremoniously evicted from your student housing. It's old, paint peeling and otherwise unimpressive at first glance, but it's clean enough inside and you haven't had to deal with pests or mold, so it works just fine for you.
"Well, this is me." You pause at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at Jeonghan. It's kind of infuriating, how good he looks even under the flickering harsh-white shine of a street light. "Where are you headed?"
Jeonghan waves vaguely to his left. "Ah, I live just down the way there. Not too far for me, either."
You nod, turning away. "Well, thanks. Um—good night. See you tomorrow?"
Jeonghan grins, waving. "See you tomorrow."
You head up the steps and walk along the outdoor hallway until you reach 205, your little studio.
When you glance down toward the bottom of the steps, he's still there. Waiting, until you’re safely inside and the door shuts behind you.
s u m m a r y : after your husband returns from the wars in foreign lands, you could not be more proud to see him be the shining pride of rome. however, even among the celebrations and your own personal news, lee jihoon only wanted one thing—some time alone with you.
c o n t e n t : roman! au, roman general! jihoon, husband! jihoon, father! jihoon, mother! mc, a lot of historical background and roman terms to add historical accuracy, soldiers! bss + wonwoo and chan, this is bss and friends, all of them are so annoying it's a wonder they aren't executed, seungcheol is, in a literal sense, a baby, this is a bullying chan campaign, the soldiers do NOT know how to talk to a baby, domesticity <333 mature content ↠ mentions of loss of loved ones, descriptions of war and death, dirty talk, petnames (my love, my sweet, darling, mea vita), fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), slight exhibitionism, unprotected sex (roman contraceptives are dookie), multiple orgasming, slight aftercare
t a g l i s t : @hyuckworld @gyuswhore @lexyraeworld @moonlightwonu @spooky-goose1003 @dvalitaes @cookiearmy @lllucere @syluslittlecrows @mrsjohnnysuh @fancypeacepersona @thepoopdokyeomtouched @monstacheol @xabsolutelynothingx @kyeomiis @icecream-sundaes @peachytokki @jihanniecheol @ourkivee
a u t h o r ' s n o t e : she is here!! i promised myself i would release this once i've watched gladiator II and she is back...changed woman...i guess this is a belated bday present to jihoon? thank u for inventing music king </3 enjoy reading loves !!
back to masterlist
“WHERE IN JUPITER IS HE?”
The maid whined as she focused on the crowd once more—thousands of citizens gathered across in the Capitol, the road cleared for the procession about to occur. Giddy conversations of every man, woman and child flourished for a mile, and you had to hold onto the girl accompanying you to not be trodden over.
“Careful, mistress!” Myrtia, your servant, warned as you dared take a step at the edge of the hill. “They will be here any minute now!”
You did not listen, holding onto your heavy shawl tighter as you waited in earnest of what was to happen. Rome was a city of chaos, but you did not hear the noise—despite the crowds, the instruments, the chanting, every single voice seemed irrelevant as you stood over the Capitolium. The little houses underneath you swirled around the hill, all evolving the temple behind you, the destination of the people about to be welcomed. Columned buildings made of stone and marble surrounded the crowds, speckled with garlands, its bright colours of vermillion shining in the summer sun.
A small sigh left your lips. Today was the day he would come back home to you.
“By the gods!” Myrtia let out an excited screech, grabbing onto your arm and pointing towards the empty street, barricaded by the people. “They’re here, they’re here!”
Following her finger, you stared at the scene.
That was when the parade entered.
Screams of elation spanned across the crowd as thousands of soldiers flooded in tight ranks, accepting the cheers with pride as they marched along, prisoners of war being dragged along by their chains. There must have been hundreds, spanning back beyond your vision, dirtied and haggard, but that was the consequence of challenging the Empire. The soldiers all adorned their red and silver uniform, smiling at the city which welcomed them.
Your eyes scanned the front of the parade, lips curving at the five men on decorated horseback. Each and every one of them had their distinguishable responses towards the people who sang praises to them, and you longed to see them ride up to the Hill where you could greet them.
When your gaze hovered to what rode in front of the men, it widened.
Four horses, adorned in the finest metals and blood-coloured clothing, led the chariot of the same colour, fully festooned in laurels. Gold swirls cemented on its front, making itself heard with its screeching wheels.
It was not the chariot you cared about.
No, it was the man who stood in it.
The man who was clothed in royal purple and gold, holding a laurel branch in one hand and a sceptre in the other. The man, whose wild black hair perfectly settled the golden crown that another beside him held. The man, whose ghost of a smile sent the crowd in absolute frenzy, beginning up a chant to his name.
“Hurrah for the Triumph!”
“Hurrah for the Triumph!”
“Hurrah for the Eagle!”
Your heart stopped to a standstill.
At last. At long last, the Eagle of Rome had come back to its nest.
“Mistress, look!” Myrtia exclaimed, pointing towards the star of the show, the lead victor in this parade. “Your husband achieved the Triumph!”
You glanced at her with unadulterated pride before focusing on the man in front, coming closer in your vision as he began the ride up the hill. The Triumph. A public celebration of a certain general who managed to lead Rome to a special, foreign victory. It meant the destruction of the enemy, complete desolation, which a mere centurion could not simply achieve. To receive the Triumph was to be respected by the highest of the Roman officials.
You smiled at the notion. The destination for the parade was the Temple of Jupiter behind you, its columns holding up the huge, faded roof, towering over the few beloved relatives of the generals that led the soldiers. “I never doubted he would.”
The crowds grew wilder as the generals journeyed closer, halfway up the rocky hill—everyone opened their doors, leaving their houses to witness the rare spectacle. “Do you think they would let us speak to them?” your maid wondered out loud, following your steps as you turned your back, walking to the Temple. Standing right beside the steps, upstaged till they reached your height. “Gods, I forgot how big the temple is sometimes!”
“Wait here,” you said, holding onto the polished stone as you climbed up the steps. The thundering sounds of hooves on cobblestone entered your ears, and the few other relatives which accompanied you silenced, joy in their faces as the parade ascended. You turned before the show, the entire building shading you with its presence.
There he was.
With his four white horses slowing, neighing wildly at the company that arrived at the hill. With his red and golden chariot inciting excited Latin from the crowd, there he was, swiping past in front of his friends. The horses finally stopped, just before the steps, and the generals behind him followed suit, halting their own as they waited for their commander.
Their commander let go of the reins—stepped down from the chariot, purple robe flowing after the steps. The head that wore the crown turned to the Temple, laurel and sceptre still in his hands.
His calculating eyes skimmed the crowd, face exposing a little pride at the turnout.
He then faced his destination—right on you his stare settled, standing alone at the entrance.
You swore you saw his entire body still.
You were not wrong. The commander parted his mouth, eyes widening with who welcomed him past the steps. Gods, he nearly dropped the possessions in his hands, staring and staring at the woman.
No, not just a mere woman.
But you, his wife.
One of the generals, instantly noticing their leader’s change, got off his horse, same black hair glinting in the sun. He walked over, taking the objects from his hands, smiling knowingly.
When the leader’s hands were free of the spoils, he willed his feet across the sanded street, first step atop the stairs. His gaze never wavered, unable to stray from the woman who haunted his nights.
You, however, could not wait at all.
A choked sob escaped you as your own feet dashed forward, barely able to control themselves as you ran to him. His arms began to raise as you collided against him, wrapping your hands around his neck and crying into his purple-clad chest.
“Missed you...Jihoon…” your muffled murmurs slipped into his attire. “Missed you...so much.”
You felt strong arms envelop you, a rough-hewn face burying into your shoulder. “I thought of you everyday, mea vita.”
Mea vita. My life. A smile caught onto your tears as you hugged him tighter. “And I thought of you every night.”
He returned it, feeling his lips curve upon your skin. Placing a small kiss, he pulled away slightly, only to take your face with one of his hands and lean in closer. Enveloping your lips with yours, he kissed you with the longing of a thousand lost souls, finally returned to their other half.
A soft groan threatened to leave your captured mouth, but then you felt your husband pull away, hands upon your waist. “I must stop here, my love, or I would not be able to stop afterwards.”
Cheeks burning, you did not let go of him. “Are you not finished?”
Shaking his head, he looked beyond you, to inside of the Temple. “I have to pay respects. It is the final part of the ceremony.” He turned to you again, aching to take you before the sacred grounds. “I cannot have you waiting for me that long.”
You were to object until the raven-haired boy behind him spoke up, waving his hand about. “We can escort her home, Jihoon,” he suggested, patting his general on the shoulder. “We do not need to go inside.”
“Are you sure, Wonwoo?” your husband asked, looking towards the other four.
One of the centurions, with straight, cropped black locks framing his face, grinned smugly, holding onto his reins. “Oh, just let her leave with us!” he exclaimed. “We all know she missed us more than your stone-cold arse!”
You chuckled as Jihoon knifed the man with a glare. “A few hours in Rome, and Soonyoung is already a pain in my backside.”
The younger centurion beside Soonyoung scoffed, brown locks being caressed by the wind. “As if he is not a bother for us all.”
Soonyoung mocked a gasp. “Seungkwan!”
“Everyone, quiet down!” Another man declared, eyes closed and head raised in pride. “We all know our Captain’s wife wishes to ride with me.”
Soonyoung began to chortle at the claim. “_____, you might as well walk home than take Seokmin’s offer,” he mused, earning a near-death experience with a dagger thrown at him.
Raising a brow at the bickering group, you raised a finger. “You know what? I think I shall ride with Chan.”
The said-boy perked up, eyes widening. “Me?” He asked, dumbfounded. “Well, of course, I just—”
“He would fall asleep mid-journey!” Seungkwan complained, crossing his arms. “It is already past his bedtime!”
“Hey!” Chan chimed in, but it did not help that he looked away, trying to stifle a yawn. Seungkwan pointed and laughed, proving his stupid point.
“Enough!” Jihoon shouted, silencing them all instantly. “If _____ says she wants to go with Chan, then that is final.”
All of them began to complain, but one warning glare from their commander had them quieting like scolded children. Chan, being the one chosen, began to smile in innocent satisfaction, earning the evil wrath of Seokmin and Seungkwan. Soonyoung merely shrugged, whereas Wonwoo put a hand on his chest, heartily agreeing with his commander.
You glanced at the man in charge, looking as ever the victor in his royal robes. “Come home soon.”
Stealing another kiss from you, he squeezed your sides in comfort, smiling in reassurance. “I already am home, vita.”
THE LEGACY COMMANDERS ALWAYS KNEW HOW TO MAKE THE MOST NOISE.
Throughout the half-hour journey, the five men talked of their lives for the near-two years they were away—the battles they had won, and the siege they had laid over Alexandria, where Mark Antony and Cleopatra were finally defeated.
Chan glanced back every five minutes to check you were stable on horseback, urging you to hold tight whenever a rockier road was being taken. You patted him softly where you rested your hands upon him, showing him you were well. “Do not fret over me, dearest,” you assured him, earning an uneasy chuckle from him.
Unfortunately, the few centurions, riding right beside you two, heard your reassurance, and instantly resorted to striking fear. “Hanging onto Chan for dear life will not help you!” Seungkwan remarked loudly. “One wrong bounce of the horse and he is flying off!”
The youngest of the men, on instinct, tightened his hold on the horse, now fearing he would drive his commander’s wife to her death. Soonyoung laughed at the scene, but set his sights on the next youngest down. “Seungkwan should not be talking,” he crowed, galloping further ahead. “Pray tell us, how much denarii did you borrow off Wonwoo to heal your broken leg? You know, after you tripped over a tent rope?”
“Careful, Soon,” Seokmin exclaimed over the horses’ hooves. “Or Seungkwan will not hesitate to call on all the escorts you went bankrupt over in Egypt!”
Soonyoung immediately whirled his head to you, who eyed him incredulously. “_____, it is an exaggeration!” he deflected. “It was only one visit, merely to see what the women were like—!”
“Is it true, Wonwoo?” you asked, who was fighting back a grimace at his friend’s endeavours. “Is our dear centurion as scandalous as he’s accused to be?”
The answer was swift. “Soonyoung’s cock is as clean as the city sewers.”
As everyone cackled, the guilty flushing with embarrassment, he quickly switched the conversation to everyone’s adventures while on the road to Alexandria. Soonyoung did most of the storytelling, with Seokmin chipping in with great pride—Seungkwan had to tell the two of them off when they exaggerated their military prowess, while Wonwoo only laughed, narrating the truth of their adventures. Whatever they told you, though, you knew that they came out victorious.
The Legacy Legion was destined for greatness—especially if Jihoon Park commanded it.
By the time they were done, you had arrived at your villa, almost on the outskirts of Rome. The huge estate had been gifted to your husband by his superior, Octavian, who was thankful for the continuous loyalty he had seen from the Legion. Its exterior towered over the five horses, guards opening the gates to let you and your friends inside.
The estate was basked in whites and greys, roof the colour of baked bricks adding vibrancy to the faded walls. When entering, you were met with your bustling courtyard, servants hard at work with preparations for Jihoon's return. Within the four walls were different rooms which served different purposes—you could smell the different breads and meat being cooked on a slow heat, taking their time to be fully made. The boys began to salivate at the aroma, and when you felt Chan’s stomach grumble beneath your fingers you reined in a laugh, waiting for him to heave off before helping you down as well.
“Take the horses to the stables,” you ordered one of the servants walking past you, who nodded, shouting for other men to come and help him.
Seokmin groaned as he sniffed the air again, holding his armour-clad stomach. “I cannot take this any longer!” He whined, stomping to where the smell took him. “____, I must have cena now or so help me Ceres!”
“Stop complaining about lunch!” Seungkwan crowed. “I gave you half of my breakfast, and you pinched Chan’s bread too!”
“Here we go again,” Wonwoo mumbled. He then heard grumbling in his abdomen, and knew he could not argue against his body.
You watched the absolute creatures in tenderness, and waved them all over. “Come,” you began, walking inside the first door. “I wish to show you something.”
“This better be some roasted boar!” Soonyoung grumbled, earning a jab in the arm from Wonwoo.
The destination was not far, and with one further turn, you ended up in a smaller, yet spacious room, golden sunlight streaming through the windows. You ushered the boys in, taking up the entire space, and they were all about to complain when you showed them.
Every single man in the room melted at the sight.
“By the gods!”
“Tell me it is not an illusion!”
“This is a better sight than roasted boar!”
Laughing, you put a hand to your lips. “Not so loud now! Jihoon is not aware of this yet, and I wish to tell him myself.”
“Of course!” Wonwoo agreed, eyes dancing. “By Jupiter, he would be overjoyed!”
“I hope so,” you voiced out your wishes, glancing at the surprise.
The boys were about to say more when they heard the distant sounds of thundering hooves near the villa, and everyone stilled.
“Quick!”
“Everyone get out of here!”
“Seungkwan, move—”
The five greatest centurions of Rome scrambled to get out of the tiny bedroom, rushing into the courtyard where Jihoon now made his entrance, crown still upon his head. He saw the rather guilty exit of his men, and raised a brow at their strange behaviour.
“What are you all—” he was about to ask, but then the boys dashed towards him, each grabbing his arm and pushing him to their last destination. “Wait, hold on—!”
“This is of extreme importance, we assure you!” Wonwoo simpered, knowing his end was near with the behaviour he and his friends upkept.
“Even more important than lunch!” Soonyoung added.
“Even more important than roast boar!” Seokmin chimed in.
Jihoon was about to throw them off when they pushed him into the small room, waving excitedly at you. “We will be looking for food!” Seungkwan called from the door, and Chan looked at you apologetically before following after his friends.
Watching them busy themselves, he turned to you, cocking his head. “What was all that for?”
“They are terrible actors, but they had good intentions.” You then bit your lip, glancing beside you. “Actually, they brought you here for a reason.”
“Oh?” He took a step forward.
Nodding your head, you put your hand upon the stone. “Jihoon, while you were gone, I had a life-changing experience.”
Furrowing his brows, he put his hands on his hips. “And that was?”
Exposing a little smile, you ushered him closer, gazing down at the said-experience.
“My love, I gave birth to our son.”
You felt Jihoon’s world still for a moment.
Within seconds after, he closed the distance to the cot, following your gaze.
There, wrapped in blankets, lay a small baby, lost in sleep.
The general did not know what to say.
He could only watch the little bundle of life as he dreamed of things which he could not understand, tiny lips brushing against his tiny thumb. The man’s heart began to race at the sight of his closed eyes, the flutter of his lashes as he stirred in slumber.
So innocent the baby was—so vulnerable that he wondered whether people of his time even knew what innocence meant.
He thought all good had withered from the world till his eyes beheld this child. His son.
“It was he that helped me cope with your absence Jihoon,” you continued, and you did not know why it began to hurt to talk. “You see, the boy looks so much like you.”
Your husband’s eyes flickered to you, catching the melancholy in your stare. He knew—of course he knew how you felt about him hardly being here.
You could not blame him, though. With a position of such esteem came great responsibility, which he would risk his life to fulfil. It was his honour, his undeterred loyalty in what he believed in, that made you fall so deeply in love with him. Still, you admitted that life was barely liveable without his magnetic presence near you.
He propped his hands on the edge of the cot. “May I...may I hold him?”
“Of course,” you replied, slowly pulling the boy in your arms, cooing softly so he stayed asleep. When you were sure he was peaceful, you held him out to your husband, who took a deep, shuddering breath.
With shaking hands, he raised them towards his son, feeling the soft cotton of his blanket beneath his fingertips. Staring at Jihoon, you made sure that he would not let go—satisfied, you gave him the stirring bundle.
Another hard sigh escaped him.
The child, on instinct, nuzzled further into his hold, right into his chest, and he knew his answer straight away. His heart fluttered nervously, holding his breath to not wake him. It was so bizarre that his nerves heightened with every second, fearing he would let go—his sword was heavier than this child, yet his hold on him was shaky, uncertain.
He wondered if he could ever get used to this feeling.
There were sensations he had experienced which brought him immense joy. His victories, his commandeering of the Roman legions, the subsequent victories that were guaranteed under his leadership. His centurions, who, despite their incessant complaining, shouting, general presences, were the catalyst to his success. You, who was behind the man that he was, and became—the reason he breathed.
A small murmur escaped the little boy, and all the love Jihoon had lost these years had come back.
He was never the one to expose such extreme emotions, but gazing at the baby brought him such…peace. In truth, he had not felt peace in a long, long time, yet the feeling washed over him, like small waves upon the shores of a beach. Each twitch of his fingers, every kick of his feet brought his soul to a standstill, then revived it once more.
He contributed to this creation. He was half the reason for the slumbering life in his hands.
His stare did not leave his son. “What did you name him, vita?”
Your gaze was rooted to him as you answered.
“Seungcheol.”
Jihoon’s rocking froze.
His eyes darted towards you, and the pure shock which emitted had your heart breaking. His mouth parted, only for silence to welcome his tongue.
It was now your hands which held onto the cot.
Seungcheol was not some ordinary name you thought up on the hour of the birth.
No, this name was originally held by the previous leader of the Legacy Legion.
Most importantly, the name was held by yours and Jihoon’s dearest friend.
Choi Seungcheol was a sweet, charismatic boy who had grown up in the same neighbourhood as you and Jihoon. He was the nail in your house of the trio, and the mastermind of the romance which weaved between the two of you.
He had an incredibly bright future ahead of him. Under Octavian’s army he had achieved the title of primus pilus—the leadership of an entire legion—with all of the boys, including Jihoon, under his command. He was an advocate of justice, and had risked his friends many times for defending the rights of Rome and her citizens against tyrants.
It was these very tyrants that brought about his downfall.
Jihoon was never meant to leave your side these past two years. He was meant to stay in Rome under Octavian, but the rivalry against Mark Antony had crossed lines, and war was about to be waged. Seungcheol, forever the hero, vowed his undeterred loyalty to the former, and promised to shed Mark Antony’s blood.
That very night, the commanders of the Legacy Legion were celebrating the war when a group of assassins launched an ambush—the five of them managed to cut out and leave, but Jihoon was on the verge of death fighting. Your husband was to die that night.
That was when Seungcheol made a sacrifice.
He hollered at the assassins to fight him, giving Jihoon the chance to escape. Your husband begged him to run, but he knew his friend would not listen.
When Jihoon saw the dozen daggers slash into Seungcheol’s chest, he could not let the sacrifice go to waste.
It was this act that brought him the rage to accept command of the Legacy Legion. It was this dire need of vengeance that helped him cope with the months of stalemates across Egypt, when he thought Mark Antony was to escape.
It was Choi Seungcheol’s sacrifice that made Lee Jihoon the Eagle of Rome.
Thinking of this particular past had your vision stinging.
Jihoon scoffed, stroking his baby’s brow. “Imagine how smug he would be now,” he mused, “If he knew we named our son after him.”
The thought had you rasping out a laugh. “Gods, we would never hear the end of it.”
He cracked a smile, gaze never straying from his bundle. He grew silent once again, clamping his lips together. Scared to wake him if he rocked him further, Jihoon settled the boy back into the pillowed cot, blinking back the stinging in his eyes.
He turned to you, and seeing his change of expression had you stepping closer. “Darling?” you got out, your hands raising to touch his face. “What troubles you?”
Shaking his head, he wrapped his fingers around your wrist. Leaning into your palm, he replied, “Nothing troubles me, vita.”
Then, he pressed a small kiss upon your skin. “I have no more troubles now that I have seen him…and I have him because of you.”
His gaze settled upon you, eyes glossed with teary gratitude. “Thank you, my love, for bringing me peace.”
The words nearly made you cry.
Jihoon did not let you, though, when, with his other hand sliding around your waist, he pulled you to him. He enveloped his lips with yours, and with a whine you accepted him, closing your eyes. The kiss you shared was achingly soft, seething with months upon months of longing—he turned your head slightly, and his lips delved deeper, taking you fully with the strength of a waking beast.
His hands dug deeper into your sides, feeling the desperation seep into his lips as he slowly pushed you back, your arms closing about his neck, needing him all over you. Sliding your hands within his locks, you revelled in its velvety softness, knowing you could live forever in him.
The action had your husband humming into your mouth, a perfect incentive as he backed you against the wall, pressing himself fully against you, extinguishing any last atom of space between you two. You could not get enough of him, trying to make up months of his absence in this kiss alone, but you wanted more, needed more, or you would collapse in his arms.
It was fortunate for you that he understood you perfectly.
However, your dear friends did not understand at all, bursting into the nursery in utmost hurry.
Five pairs of eyes rooted to the passionate scene before them.
Chan let out a shrill scream.
You and Jihoon repelled from each other, breathless gasps emitting as both of you whirled your heads to the door. The five centurions gathered at the doorway, stunned at the show that went on before they interrupted.
Seokmin let out a groan, clutching his stomach. “I regret eating that entire boar now,” he rasped out, turning away from the panting couple. Seungkwan elbowed him harshly in the gut, making the former double over.
Soonyoung sauntered in, stepping past you two in mighty fashion. “You both are insufferable!” he yelled, bringing out baby Seungcheol and rocking him in his arms. “Carrying out such atrocities with a child nearby?”
“I apologise for the disturbance, general,” Wonwoo said, glaring at the man who now cooed comically at the baby. “We were just...um, we were to ask ____ of the plans tonight.”
“But y-you seem to be very preoccupied!” Chan added, pulling the men near him away from the door. “So we shall not disturb you again!”
“You should have thought about that before,” your husband hissed. “And what do you mean by plans?”
“For your return,” you answered, smiling a little as you regained your composure. “It has been too long since you stepped foot at home. Of course I am to celebrate.”
“And do we not exist to you?” Seungkwan demanded, armoured hands at his hips. “You include Jihoon only as if we were here in Rome partying this entire time!”
“I wished that were the case,” Soonyoung drawled, stepping beside you, swaying the baby the entire time. “I would rather the company of wine than you foul-smelling bastards anyday.”
Seokmin, recovering, scoffed, pointing a finger at his fellow centurion. “Oh, do let us know then, Soonyoung, who was calling us his dearest friends on the march to Alexandria?”
“That does not count!” he countered, waving off the claims. “I was beyond gone from wine, and everyone spews rubbish when drunk.”
“You spew rubbish anyway,” Wonwoo muttered.
“You are lucky I am holding Jihoon’s child right now, or I would have knocked you out.”
“Just Jihoon’s child?” you crossed your arms. “And what if you were holding someone else’s baby?”
There was a pause at that. “I shall not comment further.”
“Enough!” the general ordered, silencing the bickering group. “Out, the lot of you! Go back to your own homes and leave us alone!”
“But _____ said we can stay here and help with preparations!” Wonwoo voiced out, stepping forward in haste.
“I never said that!”
“Please, Jihoon,” he continued anyway, “I have no wish to dump all responsibility on her.”
The said-man pursed his lips in thought, clearly in no hurry to keep his friends when he could be using this precious time to continue what he left off with you. Already his hands ached to linger further over your body, but if he was disturbed once again, then he would kill his subordinates without hesitance.
Seokmin stopped his train of thought. “Personally, I have no wish to do housework,” he jeered.
Your husband then smiled, which was more a flash of teeth. “Brilliant. You can piss off back home, then.” He then directed his threatening stare towards the others. “All of you.”
Five pairs of eyes turned to you, hoping for your objection on the matter. However, you only shrugged, holding out your hands to the man beside you. “General’s orders, I fear.” When a series of groans followed at your verdict, you took Seungcheol from Soonyoung’s hands. “Do not whine like that, friends! I am giving you the chance to have more fun before tonight’s celebrations!”
“Whatever,” Seungkwan grumbled, turning his cloak as he stepped out of the room. “I am off to get more drinks! Anyone but Jihoon may join me.”
“Hey!” the commander shouted, but the men were already leaving, save for Chan, scratching the back of his head.
Seokmin cocked his head in question at his friend’s stillness. “What are you standing here for, fool?”
“Well, um,” Chan started, his shy gaze levelling with yours. “I am not inclined to wine as of now, so I was hoping if I could...err, linger here and help around…” His eyes widened, raising his hands. “But if it is bothersome I will accompany the others!”
Your heart melted at his timidity. “What are you so nervous for? Of course you can stay. Those four idiots will only be causing trouble the entire afternoon.”
“And we intend to continue such troubles at night as well!” Soonyoung declared, almost skipping to the entrance. “Honey wine, here I come!”
“Chan, are you sure?” Jihoon asked, gesturing towards the exiting group. “You should rest a little after months of fighting.”
“I am alright, I insist,” his soldier assured him, raising his arms. “Let me take care of the child.” When you obliged, handing him the stirring bundle, he slowed his movements, ever so careful not to disturb him. He darted his gaze over you. “You, uh,” he said, and he chuckled sheepishly, a blush rising upon his cheeks. “You both carry on with whatever you were doing before!”
Before you could say further, the man was hurrying out, forgetting to close the door as he took Seungcheol with him.
You and Jihoon watched him go, stunned at the sudden entrance of the centurions, and then the sudden exit within minutes. You could not help the huff of laughter that escaped you at their antics, catching his attention. “What is the laugh for?”
“Your commanders, darling,” you mused, wrapping an arm around your husband. “They are more bizarre than usual.”
Exhaling through his nose, he returned your embrace twice over, engulfing you within his hold. “My half-witted commanders,” he reminisced, running his fingers across your back. “They are delighted to be back.”
“I can tell,” you giggled out, leaning into him. “I missed them greatly.”
His face ghosted a little smugness. “But you missed me more.”
“You keep convincing yourself of the notion.”
Feeling his laughter reverberating off him, you felt yourself being pulled at arm’s length, looking up at him once more. Your husband leaned in then, gently pressing his forehead against yours. “No one is at home anymore, vita.”
A raise of your eyebrow. “Chan just asked me to stay here.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” he insisted, brushing his nose with yours. “We are alone...with no one to bother us again…”
Much as you would like to follow his intentions, you feared the state of the pending party. It had been two years since the Eagle and his centurions’ return—their triumph will be celebrated without fault.
“Jihoon,” you murmured, taking great pains in retracting from his kisses. “I must go.”
His lips trailed down to your chin, making your willpower all the more weak. “Can you not spare me even an hour?”
If you could spare him half that hour, you would have gladly indulged him, but the party arrangements awaited. The soldiers, and your general, deserved the best of welcomes.
So you made yourself separate from his tempting hold, taking a few steps away from him. “I cannot offer even a second, my love.”
The man pretended to be beyond upset at your resistance. He waited till your feet landed on the entryway when he spoke.
“Perhaps it was better you did not give me a mere hour, vita.”
You looked back. Leaning against the stone cot, he let his lips curl upwards. “It simply would not suffice.”
The curiosity in your eyes had him further smirking. “I need an entire day to make up for the two years of absence from you.”
It was sheer luck you were holding onto the doorframe.
“Careful, love,” he cooed, which only had you stumbling further out of the door in shock. His laughter followed you faintly as you left the room, blood rushing to your cheeks in drastic speed.
You hoped ardently, without shame, that he would carry out his intentions.
Then, you aggressively shook your head, heading straight to the kitchens. Not these thoughts at the moment, _____.
You have a party to prepare for.
THE NIGHT OF THE WELCOMING ARRIVED AS QUICKLY AS YOU HAD HOPED.
The guests began to enter your estate as soon as the sun descended on the empire, bringing words of praise and gifts to your husband and his soldiers. Your pride swelled exceedingly at hearing the positive messages, encouraging everyone to drink to their health. The smiles did not cease, widening further when the men and women fawned over your child. They wished for your baby to grow up just like the man he was named after, and you smiled, scared that one word from you would have your tears gushing.
You had everyone lay on their seated beds, surrounding tables filled with nourishment. Orders spilled from your lips to never stop the plates of beef and veal and fish and infinite other meats—tonight, your guests would feast like emperors.
Eventually, the stars of the legion arrived, howling in celebration at seeing you adorned in indigo-coloured finery. You reckoned that they had drunk a fountain’s worth before showing up here, but you only hauled them inside, showing them to their place—cushioned couches all set up around low, circular tables, food nearly toppling off the edges.
Seokmin drooled at the sight. “Out of the way, bastards!” He declared, running straight for the bedding in the middle part of the cushioned arc, settling himself nicely before digging in instantly. “Tell your slave Chan to bring us some wine!”
As if on cue, the soldier came rushing in with huge jugs of the featured drink, looking at you. “Is this alright?”
“Of course, Chan,” you said, taking the jugs from him. “Now you lay beside your friends! You have helped me enough.”
“Where is that man of yours, my lady?” Soonyoung drawled, snatching a cup of honey wine from the servants. “He did not accompany us this afternoon.”
“He had to go meet Octavian,” you answered, the rest of the centurions lodging themselves on the cushions. “There were honours he had to receive from him before he could officially celebrate here.”
“As long as he gets drunk with us, I do not mind,” Wonwoo voiced, raising his cup in toast.
Seokmin, seeing Chan looking around in embarrassment, poured a cup full of alcohol and pushed it in his hand. “Drink up, boy! I am not having you shy away from your victories!”
The latter seemed much inclined to throw away the wine, but his friends began to groan. “Fine, fine, but only a sip!”
Seungkwan downed his cup, sighing into it. “He will never grow up.”
Wonwoo eyed you with concern as he plucked a grape from its pack. “Will you not have a rest with us?”
“You men have your fun,” you insisted. “I will settle when Jihoon comes home.”
Fortunately, that did not take more than ten minutes, you catching the sound of hooves outside the estate. Footsteps sounded from the entrance, and you whirled to see your new arrival.
The primus pilus of the Legacy Legion looked every bit his title—regal, powerful, magical in his purple robes, hemmed with gold as it draped over his loose white shirt, exposed on his right arm. His locks, longer than his hair months ago, curled slightly along his neck, roughening his usual soldierly demeanour.
Squealing, you rushed to him, greeting him with a kiss. “Come, come!” You exclaimed, ushering him inside.
“The general’s arrived!” Seokmin before you with the others following, albeit with more difficulty.
Jihoon directed a soft smile at you before sneering at his friends. “At least finish chewing on your food, you babies.”
“Care about your own baby before calling us such, you prick!”
“You are very lucky you are drunk, Wonwoo!”
“Sit with them,” you said, tugging him to a free space between subordinates.
As your husband obliged, he let his curiosity wander. “And where are you off to?”
Your gaze went beyond the dining hall, into the leeways that brought you to the kitchens. “I am a host, dear, and that means making sure all my guests are accommodated for.”
His grip on you was strong. “When will you come back?” He asked, thumb brushing over your hand.
You let your lips slip into a small smile. “Soon.”
And you were off, letting Jihoon’s eyes brush over you instead of his touch.
A few hours into the party and the chaos began.
You knew it was bound to happen eventually, with the amount of wine being consumed—your friends alone downed half the deposits, the consequences of such reckless drinking being exposed by their behaviour.
The centurions’ area was by far the loudest: Seokmin drank to the point he pissed in the jug that stored his wine, Seungkwan then threatening to topple that very jug atop his head. Soonyoung resorted to self-praise in his stupor, with Wonwoo shaking his head, yet laughing uncontrollably at every unfunny quip the former slipped out. Chan giggled as he sipped his alcohol, Jihoon watching all his friends with a full cup in his own hand.
It was around midnight when you heard the voice of your beloved calling for you.
“Vita!”
Excusing yourself from your tipsy guests, you walked to your dear men, who were creating a ruckus in your home. You felt soft fingers caress your shin within your dress, and you looked down to see your general smiling at you.
“Sit, my love,” he said, tugging you down to him. “You have made me wait a while.”
“Fine!” You exclaimed with mock exasperation, laying down next to him.
He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you to him, your entire back pressed against his front. “There,” he whispered, and the proximity of his breath had chills running down your spine.
You hoped he could feel the warmth radiating off you.
“_____!” Seokmin exclaimed, pointing his cup at you in accusation, wine sloshing out and spilling. “I have a bone to pick with you!”
“Oh, gods,” Jihoon cursed quietly.
“So I found out from our esteemed general that you named your son Seungcheol.” The man scoffed. “How could you commit such an action?”
When you raised your eyebrows, he smirked in disbelief, gesturing towards himself. “My lady, I am offended you did not name him after me.”
Wonwoo spit out his drink, unable to control his laughter. Seungkwan poured himself some more, clicking his tongue in amusement. “Gods forbid we have another Seokmin in our circle.”
“Now what is that supposed to mean?” the man demanded, bunching his robes from his arms.
“I know you are not that stupid,” was his sly answer.
“Boys,” Jihoon seethed, glaring at the two about to send the estate down with their fists. “Lay off the anger or lay off the wine.”
Grumbling as they broke off their spat, you looked up at the mediator, swirling his cup. “You know you do not have to be a general here.”
Your husband hummed absent-mindedly, lazily running his hand along you. “I know, vita. Can I ever rest, though, when I have such rowdy dogs barking around me all the time?”
Chuckling, you leaned into him, his honey-like scent engulfing you. “Have you drank?”
“Only a little.” You felt a lilt to his voice as he continued. “Sober enough to see clearly how divine you look. Especially in this dress.”
You stilled as his hands began to wander downwards.
Your voice barely came out as you said, “Jihoon, what…what are you doing?”
He did not respond, instead adorning a small smile on his face as his fingers ghosted down your body, to your stomach. On instinct you stopped his trail with your own hand, gripping his wrist. “Jihoon!” you hissed. “There are people right beside us!”
“People who do not know what is going on around them,” he added, gesturing to his friends. Sure enough, each and every one of the centurions were out of their minds, save for Chan, who was too preoccupied trying to take away their drinks.
Jihoon turned to you once more, eyes inviting. “I mean, I will stop if you wish.” His movements turned slower, your hand still on his. “If you have other…pressing matters.”
Your mind could only think of damning whatever ‘pressing matters’ there well to the underworld. Perhaps he could see it too. “If roaming eyes are what you fear,” he whispered, “Then let me solve that problem.”
In a flash, he brought one long slit of his toga, resting the huge sheet of fabric upon you so your entire body was cloaked, along with his wandering fingers. So casually he began his journey once more, widening your eyes with each finger spiralling downwards.
When he reached the spot, shielded only with your silk, his head rested softly against your neck. “There we go.”
He barely grazed the slit, but the very sensation had you squeezing your own hand upon his. “Easy, darling,” he whispered, as if he was not the reason for your change. “I haven’t even done anything and yet you falter.”
“Not my fault you went away for two years,” you hissed. It was a terrible thing to say, really, but your desire was bubbling. Your rationality, in turn, simply had to depart.
The comment only made your husband chuckle. “I was saving the Empire, vita.” His other hand, completely free, occupied itself, his solitary finger ghosting along your skin. “Would you rather I damn the world to the gods and serve at your feet instead?”
“As if you do not already,” you murmured, your hand loosening on his wrist.
Earning another soft laugh from him, his new freedom had him sliding down further. “And where did this…newfound confidence come from?” he asked, one finger delving into your slit and eliciting a shuddered breath. “I’d only hear gasps from you before.”
His slow endeavours found your clit beneath the silk, and the seething gasp that tore from your mouth had the bastard sighing in satisfaction. “Ah, see?” He continued, his hand upon your shoulder now sliding beneath his cloak. It found refuge upon your breasts, perked from the sheer desire burning inside. “Fuck, I missed, I–” His fingers circled your clit, and you closed your eyes, heart beating rapidly underneath his other hand.
Your breathing turned harsh, eyes darting to the members of your husband’s legion—completely unaware of the shuddering mess of nerves you had become. “Look at you,” Jihoon sighed out, fastening his fingers. “Acting out with our loved ones under this roof.” Your soft whines were music to his ears. “Whatever shall I do with you?”
“Maybe you should—fuck,” you cut off, your legs tensing, a dull, delicious ache growing at the small of your back. “Jihoon, I—”
Your line of speech was interrupted by another voice. You had hoped it would be your husband, taunting you further into oblivion, but it was a voice of pure concern.
“By the gods, _____, are you alright?”
You blinked back to see Chan, holding two glasses of wine, shaking off Soonyoung’s hands. Your eyes then widened, acutely aware of Jihoon’s fingers slowing, your release fading.
Sly as an asp, your husband retracted his hands, still under his cloak. “What is the matter, dear friend?”
The centurion had his gaze fixed on you, confused at your state. “Is _____ okay, general? Her breathing, she…it sounds uneven. Even her eyes are dazed.”
Soonyoung, taking the lucky chance of his friend’s engrossment, snatched the wine from his hand, downing the bowl. “She is drunk, you fool!” he exclaimed, loud enough for Wonwoo to double over, cursing his rowdy mouth. “And you should be as well, instead of ruining our fun!”
“My lady, allow me to indulge you with wine,” Wonwoo sang out, trying to catch a jug of alcohol from thin air.
Seungkwan snorted at his attempts, successfully stealing Seokmin’s drinks and chugging the lot. “Oi, you prick!” The latter yelled, nearly bringing the estate down. His friend merely laughed, calling him names and finishing the rest of the wine.
Chan, glancing for a moment away, focused on you once more. “Jihoon, I fear for _____.”
You feared for yourself too, but not in the manner the soldier spoke of—more your sanity at the pulsing, the near undoing now far from being reached.
Jihoon pressed a kiss to your temple, smiling at Chan’s words, despite differing intentions. “You worry too much, Chan,” he said, beginning to get up from his cushions, taking you gently into his arms. “It is as Soonyoung says. Mea Vita here has had a drink too much.”
The centurion seemed a little unconvinced, but his trust for his commander outgrew any suspicions. Seokmin scoffed at the couple attempting to leave, shaking his bowl at you both. “And where are the lovebirds off to?” he demanded.
“Lady _____ is tired from the honey wine,” Chan explained. “Jihoon is helping her sleep.”
“Ha!” was the boy’s reply.
“Are you really that dim-witted?” Seungkwan asked, laughing darkly at the youngest’s naivety.
“Huh?” Chan glanced at his general.
The general declared to his guests, “I will be retiring with my wife, but enjoy until dawn, friends!”
Cheers arose from every corner of the estate, no doubt eager to live up to his request. Jihoon then rested his eyes on his soldier, who looked up at him with great bewilderment.
He only offered a sly wink before slipping into the hallways.
Chan’s confusion only deepened.
Soonyoung spluttered into laughter. “You poor fool!”
Seungkwan’s smirk was prevalent as, taking the bowl filled with fresh honey wine from the tables, he sat beside Chan, offering him his first drink. “Let us educate you, dear man, on what exactly is about to happen between our general and his wife.”
IT TOOK APPROXIMATELY TEN SECONDS BEFORE YOUR PATIENCE SNAPPED IN YOUR DARKENED HALLWAYS.
You slapped your hands against Jihoon’s purple-clad chest, and tried to push him back into the stone wall. Of course, when one had the strongest general in the Roman Empire as a husband, physically overtaking them is an impossible action.
Which was why he began to laugh at your efforts before casually taking your wrists, whirling you about. Suddenly your back was against the wall, with his face near inches from you.
“Cannot control yourself for even a minute?” He purred, bringing your hands above your head. “Has the journey to our bedroom become too difficult?”
“Stop fucking about with me” you got out, aching to have your hands freed, touch his face, his lips, but he was too strong.
The man leaned further. “No, vita…it has been too long.”
He brushed his nose along with yours. “Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with simply fucking you against the wall.”
His words alone had your heart beating faster, eager to see how he would play the night out. It had been far too long since you had felt such promise of pleasure in these years.
“I won’t be either, general,” you mused, and the fire that sparked in Jihoon’s eyes could have very well brought you your undoing then.
That was enough for him to swoop in, damning all sweetness to the underworld as he collided his lips with yours.
You swore you could never tire of Jihoon’s lips as he moved hungrily, grip on your wrists tightening. A small noise lodged in the back of your throat, aching to be released but to no avail. His mouth refused to pull away, miss even a moment of how you felt against him.
The years away made you realise how much you missed his touch—lips in sync, bodies snuffing out any distance left—you had no choice but to whine into his mouth, opening yourself up fully to him. You wanted him all, without a single drop of hesitation.
Feeling the exact same, he happily delved further, an eon-old kernel of fire singeing his lips and searing you with his desire. His tongue, catching onto his lust, slithered past your teeth, swirling your tongue with his and increased the volume of your moans.
Gods, your moans, your little voices of passion were like victory trumpets to his ears, every single ah! or fuck! riling him further into a frenzy. He had not forgotten these glorious sounds when he was thousands of miles away, but it had been so fucking long since he had heard them in person, and not just his dreams.
So he relished in your moans. Completely engulfed himself in your bubble of desire as his one hand strayed from your wrists, skirting downwards along your body. Grabbing hold of your skirts, he raised them to your hips. He caught sight of your cunt, and he swore his mouth watered.
“Stop it…stop stalling, Jihoon,” you seethed, soul almost withering in wait for your husband to ruin you already.
Fortunately for you, he was the most accommodating man.
His hand freeing yours, it journeyed downwards to the real treasure. Your eyes widened at his finger sliding inside you, and the pure, ethereal sensation of his touch finally attaining your cunt had you dazing off completely. Your mouth forgot all words, as if forgetting how to speak the languages which Jihoon whispered now on your skin.
With your hands gaining newfound freedom, they carded through his hair, finding refuge in the soft, growing locks, tidied for the party. You would have done more had Jihoon not circled your clit, and the delirious sensation was back—your legs nearly gave way, and you let out a whimper as you held onto him tightly, lest you fell at his feet.
His sharp eyes caught onto your weakening state, slowing his ministrations. “How about I take this somewhere else?” He rasped in your ear.
Not waiting for your answer, he slid his hands underneath your thighs and picked you up, you instinctively wrapping your legs around him. He did not cease his kisses, his tongue dancing inside your mouth while finding the door to the bedroom.
He did not waste a single moment—kicking the door open with his foot, he settled you on the table right beside, throwing the objects to the floor. Giving you a small peck, he journeyed downwards, slowly kneeling before you while opening your legs.
His husky chuckling rang in your ears. “Gods, after so long…” he could not even finish, pressing airlight kisses upon your inner thigh, each phantom touch nearing the kernel of arousal. “So…fucking long…”
The minute he reached his destination his tongue slipped free of his mouth. Holding onto your thighs, he let himself take the last step.
His tongue sliding along your cunt had you melting on the table.
You were certain the table had crumbled beneath you, the ground fading as your husband explored you, lapping up the arousal dripping since the moment he graced you with his touch. A satisfied noise left his occupied mouth, you tasting like the honey wine you poured for him not an hour ago.
This. This made fighting relentlessly for two years worth it. This made every single drop of blood, buckets of sweat and floods of tears worth it. Life was hard, torturous even away from Rome, from you, but all that dark anguish in the time lost between you two was worth it if this was his reward.
And Jihoon would make sure this, too, would be worth it for you.
His tongue found your clit, and if you were not a mess before, the tendrils of pleasure that came with reduced you to cinders. He circled the bud like a slow march, growing faster with each passing beat. You moaned his name, a mantra on your lips which only rang louder.
“J-Jihoon,” you kept whimpering, and his tongue would circle faster. You begin to thrash against him, unable to sit still while he brought you such unadulterated thrill. You would have happily grinded against his face had his hands on your thighs not tightened, indicating to stop fidgeting.
In honesty you tried—you endeavoured to be composed, but the bastard made the task impossible. The writhing continued, and would have kept going had Jihoon not halted his actions.
You let out an agitated yelp.
“I’m sorry, vita, but you have to stay still,” he replied, fingers running along your thighs. “Do you not want to enjoy this?”
His lips glistened as he spoke, courtesy of your cunt. With his head in between your thighs, he was a feast for your eyes. “Fuck, Jihoon, I…I already am.”
Maybe he agreed that he was a fine feast, for he curved his shining mouth in a dark smirk, eyes not leaving yours as he slowly slung a leg over his shoulder. “Well then,” he began, repeating with the other leg, fingers skimming the naked skin. “Let me add to your pleasure.”
This time, when he dove in, he was relentless.
You gripped onto the edge of the table, fingers digging into the wood as he quickened the rhythm of his tongue, working on your bundle of nerves so deliciously you wondered how your soul still survived inside your body.
The wondering stopped, your questions answered when his finger joined in on the ravishing, sliding inside you and knocking the breath out of you. He was so undeniably good, knowing you liked the insertion slow, almost testing the waters before completely undoing you.
And gods bless him, for that is all he intended to do. The Eagle of Rome only knelt for the gods, but you, your whines, your writhing pleasure he drank like a man parched…
You had become a deity in his eyes; and a celestial figure deserved the best of service — hours upon hours of honing your desire because he was the only one who was capable of ruining you.
Another finger found itself inside you, and your cunt began to pulsate at the fullness it achieved, inching along the growing tension bubbling deep within your gut. Beads of sweat dripped down, your willpower to not thrash against his face about to snap, and when he fastened his pace an obscenely loud moan ripped through your mouth.
You were much too close to the final high.
“Fuck, Jihoon—!” you nearly cried, hands unable to stray from his hair, his wonderful, lustrous hair. “Jihoon, please, I’m so clo—”
His free hand on your thigh squeezed you ever so slightly, as if aware of your near absolution. He only sped up his work, his fingers gliding in and out so quickly you could not keep up. If that was not enough, his mouth sucking on your clit was ready to bring the sky down on your head.
But Jihoon was ready to risk the destruction of all the world. Ready to face the gods in his last hour as he swirled your swollen bud with his tongue one last time.
That was enough to come undone.
Your release came crashing, curls of pleasure riding all through your body as your mind misted into fog, no thought or idea save for the slow assistance of your husband, easing your throbbing. A lust-struck sigh came out of you, hand falling from his hair onto his tensed shoulder. Sensing your high washing over, he slowed his tongue, fingers withdrawn from your cunt.
He caught your gaze in his, two slick fingers hanging between you two. He dared you to look away as he brought them to his lips, slipping them inside and tasting the residue.
That sight alone could have made you come for the second time.
The bastard knew it too, for a ghost of a smirk exposed itself on his face, once his fingers were clean of your arousal. “Could not let it go to waste,” he murmured, as if your wetness was liquid gold.
Hands back on your thighs once more, he lifted himself up gently, toga in disarray over his service. With you sat upon the table, his fingers found home upon your chin, lifting your line of sight on him.
Pure hunger lay dormant in his eyes.
Not just his eyes, but his mouth still, when he leaned in and kissed you. You returned it without question, desire coiling around your soul as if it had not been released mere minutes ago.
You did not care. Not when you had waited so fucking long.
The man smiled between the burning kisses, humming at your lusted agony as he slid an arm around your waist. “My love—” a kiss upon the corner of your mouth —”What more shall I do—” another kiss, to the other corner—”For you?”
If he kept at it like this, you were going to forget your mother tongue. “Inside me…” you mustered between his lips on you, on your skin. A pathetic attempt, but your mind was still recovering from your release.
He paused, a malicious grin curving. “Pray, mea vita, my sweet, was I not just inside you?” Tugging you off the table, he held on tight as your knees buckled. “See? Even your body speaks for me.”
Your leg brushed against the weakness of his argument, almost tenting his toga. “Does yours?” you managed to remark, catching the defeated furrow of his brow.
His stare had you silent once again, butterflies forming in your stomach. Leaning in, his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.
“I’ll have your body screaming for me when I’m done, vita.”
Your body, in his response, shuddered against him.
Jihoon did not wait for more as he slotted his mouth along yours, igniting the flame again, unable to have enough of you as he whirled you around, eliciting the same little whines he adored so ardently.
He swooped you up in his arms, knowing your legs could not take the walk to the bed. Never stopping his kisses, he knew where to go by memory, hands skirting along your skin as he neared the final haven of tonight. Despite his words, he laid you gently upon the bed, continuing his trail upon your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere where you would allow him.
Your heart sang at what was to come. Memories flooded you, passionate nights of years ago reminding you of what had been, and what distance had snatched from you. You had never forgotten the last time you both had made love, the very last night you both had been offered before he was to sail away to satiate his need for vengeance. He had asked nothing from you, not a single request, even though he knew you would have given it to him in a heartbeat.
No, that night, he had explored every inch, every crevice of your body—burned his presence onto your skin till the entirety of Rome knew that Lee Jihoon had left a piece of himself in you. That piece morphed into the child you bore, but Jihoon had never really left your soul, despite the thousands of miles stretching between you two.
“Never again,” you let yourself whisper as he broke away, your hands fisting themselves in his toga, tugging off the fabric which was another form of distance. You needed him once again. Yes, you had withstood miles upon miles away from him. But now, you could not handle even inches apart.
He understood. He always understood, slipping off the clothing till it reached his hips. Climbing over you, his abdomen exposed, you could not believe your cheeks burned at the sight of him half-naked before you. A small chuckle escaped him, and he stole a quick kiss before burying himself into your neck.
His fingers reached for the loose straps of your dress, barely of use. “Take these off for me, darling,” he whispered, and the order vibrated along your skin, ready to be followed. While you desperately tried to pry your dress off, he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the base of your throat, making your simple task an impossible mission.
One strap fell, and Jihoon’s teeth slowly sank into your skin, sucking at the spot with such passion a soft groan trambles out of you, unsure whether you could get the other half of your dress off. Thankfully, with someone as accommodating as him, he pressed an unironically chaste kiss before finding the last straps himself.
The pure smugness in his eyes had you in near tears. “One little kiss, and you’ve ceased working,” he drawled breathily. “Must I do all the work, my sweet?”
You would have cursed his ancestors had he not brought your dress down, tossing the clothing to the side and drinking in your bare figure.
A breath shuddered out of him, certain that you could inhale the pure lust oozing from him. “I can’t…I cannot believe I went two years without…without this—”
The words were left unfinished as he wasted no time, indulging your mouth for moments before pouncing downwards, taking your left breast in his mouth and skimming his teeth softly against the nipple. The man was riling you up now, you taking his hair in your hands, certain you were trying to tear his locks out with the way you held onto him. Jihoon did not seem to mind, too occupied with your breasts to pay heed to your damage.
“Jihoon, please, I need you to—fuck!” cut off with his tongue encircling your breasts, you nearly had had enough. Your cunt ached for the final descent, your patience growing thin. “Please, I-I need you inside me!”
His answer was allowing one last lick to your right nipple, cold striking your breasts as he looked down at you, eyes glossed over with carnal delight. With his hand he ripped away the toga pooling at his hips, and his cock was freed, almost enraged to be cloaked away in silk.
You looked like a fool staring at it, but you could not help it—you did not remember it being so huge, even though it has been inside you countless times. Another piece of evidence that he had been away from you long enough.
“Ogled enough, darling?” his voice snapped you back, and you were almost embarrassed at the shit-eating grin that lit up his face.
“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you could not say more, you being silenced with his searing kiss.
Pulling away, his forehead rested against yours, black locks tickling your cheeks as he held your one side in one hand, and his cock in another.
Nudging your legs apart, the tip brushed against your folds, and your soul nearly departed from the ghost of a touch. “Careful,” he warned, thumb stroking your hip, and he stole a glance at you.
“I love you, vita,” he whispered.
And began the final descent.
His cock slid inside, slowly, ever so slowly, but with every inch you felt each layer of your spirit stop to a standstill. Jihoon never stopped watching—catching your parted mouth, the shallow, uneven breaths you took, the knitted brows, your fingers holding onto him for dear life. He could not help it, see—these few seconds, these few, transitory moments, where both souls are on the edge of the world, and none know whether they’d hang on, or fall to their doom.
This moment encompassed such an image within the features of your face.
And he relished it. Captured the image, and used it as fuel to his carnal fire as he buried himself into you, releasing a breath he kept inside the entire time. Maybe it was after so long, but the two of you stayed still, your husband fearing you might snap. A frivolous thought, of course, but one can believe anything when one is so vulnerable.
One look from you, though, had his doubts disappearing in an instant. You let a small smile escape, and it was all he needed before he slowly withdrew, the mere action so gratifying you wondered whether it was another one of your dreams, a vision granted by the mercy of the gods.
Maybe the gods were extra pleased, for Jihoon was no dream—only a very pleasing reality, waiting for your whimpers to fill the room before thrusting back into you again. The rhythm was beginning to strike, and you were its follower; the shy hesitations started to fade, and you could feel his desire burning with every slide out, and every slide in of his cock into you, holding onto your hips to keep you steady.
With each thrust you felt the stakes of your pleasure reach higher and higher. Tendrils of delight rippled through you with his movements, quickening yet keeping his fluidity, like an elegant dancer in a warfield, somehow managing to emerge victorious with his body alone. Of course, you could never doubt your husband. He was the favourite of the Empire for a reason.
“By the gods, you—” he plunged into you once more, and he grazed a certain spot inside you that had you seeing the universes. “You’re so fucking good to me, you—”
Never finishing his sentences, never even finishing his line of thought, the sole thing in his mind being your delicious fucking folds, your cunt which felt so perfect around his cock. He leaned in further, teething sweet love bites onto your neck, revelling in your pleasured groaning, growing louder and louder with each quickened thrust. “Yes, vita, just like that!” he exclaimed, never stopping. “For all of Rome to hear!”
He did not care a bit if the world heard them now. All that mattered to him was you, you and only you.
More so when that familiar, growing ache of nerves was back, warning you of your impending release. Jihoon was ruthless to you, relentless with his cock, unforgiving with his tongue and teeth which managed to devour your every inch. There was no escaping it—the ache was like a tightened knot, with his actions well on its way to unravel it.
“I-I’m close, Jihoon,” you breathed out, pressing your lips on his chest, his shoulder, anything you could grasp. “Please, love, I need to—”
“I know, vita,” he guttered, as if he, too, was close. He did not care much for that, though, when all he could focus on was you, all broken words and teary gazes beneath him. “I know.”
To add even more to your doom, he brought back an older prospect, fingers circling your clit and heightening the delight swirling within your gut ten times over. The nerves were pumping, faster and faster, and you were deathly aware that it was now or never.
Your eyes, seeing stars throughout, found your husband within the mist of desire. “J-Jihoon…”
Everything was forgotten. Not a word remembered in the fog of your mind but your vita’s name, your lover’s name, bright as the summer sun, as bold as the royal colours he adorned in his triumph.
As true as the love never lost between the two of you.
It was enough for the Eagle of Rome to capture your lips, holding you in a heart-wrenching kiss.
It was enough for you to completely ruin yourself.
Your cries drowned onto his mouth as release came crashing, legs shaking as you died and resurrected all at once, came undone within his hold. The world slipped away in that moment, with him as your anchor, saving you from being eternally lost.
While you lay breathless, Jihoon slipped himself out of you, breaking away from your kiss to cry out himself, spilling himself onto you and the sheets. A haggard fuck escaped him, arcing over you before throwing himself beside you.
Silence welcomed you after that.
The din of the party remained, and both of you gasping, but a silence followed, like a warm winter blanket. Both of you stared at the ceiling, the moonlit parts of the surfaces, trying to catch your breaths after what you both just experienced.
Turning your head, you caught Jihoon already stealing glances. They were heavy-lidded, unsurprisingly, yet you found it endearing, despite the circumstances.
“What?” you got out, cocking your head at his soft staring.
He shook his head, smiling tiredly. He stretched his arm out towards you, murmuring, “Come here.”
Obliging, you followed under his arm, resting your head against his chest. Despite the granite-hardness of his body, no other surface would suffice. Your head rose and fell along to his uneven breathing, a small comfort.
As the general gazed down at you, the softness returned; his thumb stroked along your cheeks. “I…” he began, voice huskier than usual, you humming in satisfaction.
“Yes?” you got out, hanging onto his every word.
Glancing away for a second, he looked to the window, and the view it offered of the world beyond.
He then glanced back at you, a better world he had found of his own.
“I am…so happy…” he whispered. Whispered because he had to tell his world what he felt. “So happy to come back to you.”
Your heart but into a thousand butterflies.
A smile as wide as you could muster was your response.
And as he continued stroking your hair, and you leaning into his hold, you too, knew that you felt the exact same.
For the Eagle of Rome had returned to you at last.
CENTURION LEE CHAN HAD WITNESSED HORRORS.
He had seen thousands of dead men, scattered across the sands of Egypt. He had seen ships sink before his very eyes—by the gods, he had even seen the beginnings of death, when he nearly drowned at the final naval battle that secured Legacy Legion its victory.
None of these events, however, made him more queasy as realising that you, while you were laid beside your husband, were not experiencing intoxication from honey wine. It was an exhilaration of a completely unusual kind, a feeling that had the tips of his ears reddening.
His fellow men’s reactions only made it worse. “What did you think they were going to do?” Seungkwan only demanded. “Sleep it off on their first night together?”
“Well, how was I to know?” the youngest visibly shivered. “I do not know how married people work.”
“Poor soul,” Soonyoung tutted out, no plans for pausing his drink. “I fear for when he is to wed.”
“I still do not understand,” Seokmin voiced out. “They have a whole child together. How did you not…”
“My apologies for not pondering over our general’s intimate life,” Chan grumbled. “How idiotic of me.”
“Do not mind these deviants,” Wonwoo assured him, handing him a fresh cup of wine. “You just drink their awful comments away.”
He spared a fearful glance at the cup, filled with honey wine. “I should not,” he meant to declare in a confident stance. His voice, already weakened from a previous revelation of his commander’s, had rendered his declaration as a childish mumble. “The baby would need my attention sooner or later.”
“Fuck the baby!” was Seokmin’s great exclamation, clicking his tongue. “He is already the star guest of this damned celebration. We—!” he patted his chest repeatedly—”We were supposed to be the ones our people fawn over!”
“Your need for attention never fails to astound me,” Wonwoo remarked, circling his drink. “The boy was named after our murdered friend.”
“It happens to men like Seokmin,” Seungkwan drawled, slinging an arm around him, “To those men who received no attention at home.”
“Fuck off!” Seokmin jeered, rasped out from the alcohol buzzing in his system. “At least our Roman women fawned over me this afternoon. Where were your girls?”
“My, my, our dear Seokmin’s imagination runs so wild!” The second-youngest cooed condescendingly, grabbing Wonwoo’s cup, which had the latter furrowing his brows. “He dreams of female attention when we have seen no evidence of it!”
Soonyoung wished to join in on the bullying, chiming in, “And now he envies a child that cannot control its own piss!”
As everyone laughed at the poor, drunk soul, who genuinely looked as if he might cry, Wonwoo waved his large hands around, as if attempting to calm everyone down. “No more harassing the unloved virgin.”
“We were not talking about Chan though,” Soonyoung instantly piped up, his next said-target narrowing his eyes.
“Just because I choose to save myself for someone I love,” he grumbled, which had chuckling resonating around the group.
“Gods help her when she turns up, then,” Seungkwan sighed out, drinking Wonwoo’s wine.
Perhaps Chan might have said something in retort—might have even garnered the strength to punch the honey wine out of his friend’s insides when one of the servants came hurrying.
He identified her as Myrtia, your personal maid, who looked incredibly distressed. “Centurion Lee,” she immediately began, “Seungcheol keeps crying!”
“Oh, gods,” Soonyoung crowed, “Wet-nurse first, soldier second, is it?”
“At least he is not a whore first, Soonyoung,” Seokmin muttered.
“Both of you, shut up!” Chan finally snapped, turning to Myrtia once more. “Where is he right now? Will _____ not tend to him?”
“Our dear _____ is a little occupied being tended to herself, remember?” Seungkwan reminded him, his smirk malicious.
The youngest flushed scarlet, shaking his head. “Right, of course…” He heaved himself off the cushions, to much of his friends’ agitation. “I will see what to do.”
“What?” Soonyoung sat up, but the alcoholic daze had him swaying slightly. “Wait, wait, wait, don’t just leave!”
“Take me to Cheol,” Chan said to Myrtia, but before she could even agree, four rounds of disapproving voices hurled towards the poor boy.
“No!” Seungkwan exclaimed first, taking great pains to hoist himself off the long tables. “No, no, you cannot go on your own!”
“Exactly!” Seokmin joined in, using Seungkwan’s toga to try hauling himself up. “You will die in there!”
Wonwoo clicked his tongue, even though he, too, was beginning to follow after his friends. “Chan is not going to die with a mere child.”
Chan watched his superiors rise carelessly from their furnishings, already feeling a little frantic. “What are you all doing?”
“Why, coming with you, of course!”
“Myrtia, my sweet,” Soonyoung purred, patting a hand on her shoulder, “You lead us straight to the baby!”
Hurriedly nodding, she turned and headed towards the destination, five centurions hot on her heels as they were led down the familiar hallways. Chan muttered to himself, but did not have time to self-ponder when he was constantly being distracted.
“How much longer is this going to take?” Seokmin whined, holding onto the walls for support. “And since when did the lamps on _____’s walls start shaking?”
“It has not been a minute and you’re complaining!” Seungkwan snarked out. “It’s a wonder you managed to walk forty miles everyday, lazy git.”
“Not lazy enough to slice your mouth right off!”
“Just this door here,” Myrtia said, turning into the empty doorway, dipping her head in respect as she stepped out of the way, allowing Chan to enter first, the rest stumbling behind him.
Sure enough, the first noise heard in everyone’s ears was the wailing—a screechy, whiny sound which reverberated off the stone walls, striking discomfort, irritation, turmoil in the hearts of whoever heard them. The man who felt it the most dashed to the cot, brows joining together in agitation over the sight of the baby.
“You would think Chan was the father,” Seungkwan retorted. “Do something about this crying, boy!”
“You really are heartless,” Wonwoo scolded, following after the youngest. Observing the crying child, he pursed his mouth into a thin line. “How does one…stop a baby from crying?”
“Only a mother can take care of her child,” Seokmin voiced out, as if he thought of a ground-breaking notion akin to Plato’s wisdom.
“We are not disturbing _____,” Seungkwan rebuked, shaking his head vigorously. “Those two have waited nearly two years to fuck each other again.”
“Let them have their fun!” Soonyoung roared, which had the baby crying louder. “Gods, Chan, you are the youngest after Cheol. Handle this sobbing mess!”
“I have seen twenty summers,” Chan muttered.
“Yes, so a baby in my eyes!”
“Of course you are going to consider Chan as a baby, you geriatric. It’s a wonder you did not collapse on the battlefield.”
I will kill you in the next war, Seungkwan.”
As the rest started grumbling amongst themselves, the youngest gently picked up the bundle, slowly rocking him in hopes to calm the crying. Seungcheol’s face was reddened with the constant sorrow, and it broke Chan’s heart a little, hoping that he would gain some newfound power and solve whatever problem ailed him.
A sigh escaping him, he began to mumble sweet nothings to him, morphing those whispers in a quaint song he heard from his own childhood. His melody was like honey wine, words so soft, his voice so sweet, that the men that accompanied him began to quieten, turning their heads to the origin.
Wonwoo watched the scene, smiling lop-sidedly. “You are a natural!”
“It is quite embarrassing,” Seokmin admitted, scratching the back of his head, “That the youngest of us is the only one able to calm a child.”
“None of us claimed to be good with children,” Seungkwan thought out loud, observing the younger soldier tend to the sobbing, which had quietened to mere whimpers.
Soonyoung tried to raise a brow—strong on tried, but he was too drunk to carry out such a simple action. “You always boasted of your relationships with your nieces and nephews.”
“That is different. I could care less about random urchins.”
“Seungkwan!” Seokmin exclaimed. “Seungcheol is no urchin.”
“He was though, was he not?” The man scoffed, albeit a bit tenderly as he began to reminisce. “Gods, did you forget how insufferable he was?”
“Always on our arses, too,” Soonyoung agreed, snickering. “Do you remember when he got us in shit with Octavian?”
“Talking back to Caesar’s successor during our first military session.” Wonwoo visibly shivered. “The punishment still haunts me.”
But the distant memory only made the rest chuckle, as if the centurions had not received verbal lashings from the leader of Rome at that time. Silence bathed the room, only Seungcheol’s voice sputtering through the surface of calm. It had only been a meagre two-and-half years since the inspiration behind his name had passed, but with the hardships of the Alexandria campaign, it had felt like decades. Even Chan felt the age of this campaign, although he was young when he suffered the loss.
He sensed the loss a little more that night as, walking away from the cot, he leaned against the wall. As if unable to stand, he let his legs buckle a little, sliding down and settling on the floor, feet spreading out before him. “I sometimes see him in my dreams,” he admitted.
There was a heavy pause.
Then, “He visited me more a year back.”
Everyone focused on Soonyoung. Travelling to where his youngest friend sat, he copied his position, continuing, “I told Jihoon about it, actually, right before Actium…I deemed it a sign of the gods.” A small laugh huffed out of him. “He then corrected me, saying it was all Cheol.”
“Typical,” Seungkwan said, smiling. “Take all the might of the gods and reward himself for it.”
“I cannot blame him, though,” Wonwoo countered, wandering over to the seated duo, looking down at their general’s son. “A loss of faith can come with a loss of a loved one.”
“Yes, but look at us now!” Seokmin reasoned, gesturing to them all. “Victors of the coming generation!”
“But these so-called ‘Victors’ cannot stop a baby from crying,” Wonwoo murmured, sitting beside Chan. “I doubt we deserve that title.”
“Hey, at least Chan deserves it.” Seokmin hurried to sit beside the former, watching tenderly over at the baby. “Look, he is silent now!”
“No way!” Seungkwan exclaimed, sauntering to the group and settling beside Soonyoung, reaching over to inspect the claim.
Sure enough—at the centre of the most powerful soldiers in Rome, almost slumbering in complete peace, was a silent Seungcheol, happy Seungcheol as he stirred only if Chan moved his hand, or shifted his legs. It was not as if they had not seen a mere child before, but, once again, this bundle, so full of life, was different. This was their commander’s legacy. Their leader’s soul extended from his own life-force, his evidence that he loved.
This Seungcheol that the five men stared at was the new beginning.
It was a long time before anyone spoke. “Do you think he looks more like one over the other?” Wonwoo asked.
“All babies look the same to me,” Seokmin offered his opinion.
By Seungkwan’s incredulous glance, it seemed it was not appreciated. “No one let this idiot have a child of his own.”
The accused frowned, genuinely hurt. “Hey! I should like to have a family one day. Give you all opportunity to become uncles again.”
“I would recognise your baby anywhere,” Soonyoung crowed, “Because it shall be the ugliest out of ours.”
The gasp that escaped Seokmin had Chan choking out a laugh. Seungcheol stirred at the action, which had the latter immediately stilling. “You guys need to insult each other’s future children a little quieter,” he whispered.
The former had other plans, though. “Wait, can I hold him?”
Chan shot a concerned glance. “Fine, but be careful!” he insisted, slowly handing over the bundle to Wonwoo, who, after smiling at him, passed him over at the end.
Seokmin began rocking the child, who glanced up at him, languidly blinking up at the soldier. He was ecstatic, softly touching the tiny nose, and feeling his mouth widen into a grin. “See? He likes me already!”
“Yeah, after Chan has done all the hard labour,” Wonwoo commented, beaming at the baby’s expression.
“I want Cheol after you,” Soonyoung demanded, crossing his arms, “So he can see what a real man is like.”
“Real jester, more like,” Seungkwan muttered, earning himself a hard elbow in the side.
What Seokmin wanted to do was tell the eldest to wait his turn. He did not have the opportunity when he smelt the air around him, and found it most foul.
Chan noticed it immediately as well, and within the next few seconds, the others caught on. Five pairs of eyes whirled to the baby, who had the audacity to giggle.
Seokmin let out a scream.
“BY THE FUCKING GODS—!”
Everyone scrambled to their feat, the rest struggling to hold back their amusement. “Not so loud!” Chan hissed, though he was restraining a laugh, only successful by the finger on his lips.
“Stupid damned baby!” Seokmin screeched, holding the bundle at arms length.
Wonwoo could not help his laugh, which spluttered out of him. “You cannot blame a baby for acting like one! It is like scolding a dog for running after a bone.”
The comparison had Soonyoung bellowing out, holding his stomach. “I always knew Seungcheol was annoying, but shitting on us is another low!”
Seokmin visibly shivered, patience running thin. “I hope he is rotting in the underworld,” he cursed, completely merciless.
“I hope he is laughing at you,” Seungkwan prayed instead, wiping a few tears from his eyes.
Chan only shook his head, walking to the doorway and stretching his head out. “Myrtia!” he called out, catching her tending to the guests in the dining areas.
Quickly she arrived at the scene, understanding immediately what had occurred, judging by the men’s reactions. “Hand him over, Centurion,” she ordered, he obliging her instantly.
“Sorry?” Seokmin offered, as if he was the one who soiled his toga. That had the others laughing even more, which had him furrowing his brows. “You men are the worst!”
“After ruining Chan’s night with all our complaints, it is only fair that we turn to you!” Soonyong explained, as if that was perfectly reasonable.
Seungkwan cackled darkly. “We really are each other’s worst enemy.”
Wonwoo somehow found that incredibly sentimental. “I would not have it any other way,” he said, slinging his arm around Chan, ushering the other three to join in. “After all, who knows us better?”
“You make a stellar point!” The eldest clasped onto Chan’s free side, poking him in the cheek. “I would not wish to befriend any other wretched bastard.”
“You do not possess the ability to make friends, Soonyoung,” Seungkwan pointed out.
“Then what are we?” Seokmin demanded, offended, the last to join the group.
“Comrades?”
“Colleagues?”
“People who have seen me naked?”
But it was Chan, who was quiet all this time, observing his older—usually irritating, sometimes diabolical, yet always beloved—superiors, there formed an answer which had been settled in his heart the moment he had found their company nearly a decade back.
“Brothers.”
The men surrounding him stilled, gawking at the centre of their group—the centre that was always the core of their brotherhood. Although there was ample opportunity to poke fun at the situation, they found no ground for such humiliation. They only watched as, in an almost comical image, four pairs of eyes softened at the boy who had grown right in front of them.
Wonwoo ruffled the youngest’s mop of waves. “And you are the dearest out of us all.”
“And do not forget it,” Seungkwan said. “Even if we make you seem otherwise.”
Chan smiled at them all, face flushing at the amount of attention received. A comfortable silence fell over them, everyone pondering over different notions, reminiscing of their times together.
Soonyoung, however, possibly still a little intoxicated, thought of a completely different opportunity—thoughts of the very near future.
“Men,” he began, “I have a proposition.”
The soldiers perked up, about to brace themselves for a revolutionary idea.
“Who wants to spy on Jihoon and _____?”
There was a momentary pause. Chan, visibly horrified, whirled his head left and right, praying to the gods that his fellow brothers felt the same.
“Go on, then.”
And as the four eldest centurions shuffled to the nursery’s entrance, Chan scrambled for a solution, because he would have rather been Mark Antony’s prisoner than listen to his commander and his wife…solidify their reunion.
He sucked in a sharp breath.
“Wait!”
The men paused, looking over their shoulders. “What is it?”
That intake of breath was released in complete devastation. So much for calling these utter shits brothers.
“How about we all drink? I shall…” A hard gulp. “I shall join you properly all this time.”
They could not believe it at first. Chan, however, trudged over to them, grabbing onto whatever shoulder was nearest. “I mean it.”
He swore his brothers seemed happier in that moment than they had been cradling Jihoon’s child.
“Well, what are we waiting for?!” Soonyoung roared, already leaving the entrance. “Let us empty the coffers!”
And as the five most powerful men in Rome ran to be utterly gone with alcohol, Chan could not help but huff out a laugh, and hoped he had done his primus pilus a favour.
YOU HAD ALWAYS ADORED THE WAY YOUR HUSBAND SLEPT.
As one of the most esteemed, strongest generals ever walked on Roman soil, Lee Jihoon looked as vulnerable as your baby son as he lay next to you. His body rose and fell with every breath, his arm a strong comfort around you.
You could not help the smile that slipped past your mouth, watching him rest so peacefully after two years. You loved every single inch of your husband, but these little pieces of him, offered to you on rare occasions—with the sun bleeding through the bedroom windows, cool air drifting inside, kissing your skin—were a treasure rarer than all the wealths of the empire.
You dared not wake him, lest the moment ended, only allowing your fingers to stretch a little forward. Your fingertips caressed the small cuts, scars on his skin, wishing you could fill every crevice of his battle-worn face with your liquid love.
How beautiful he was, with or without what his experiences added onto him.
Perhaps he could feel the adoration radiating off of you, for he began to stir faintly, humming to your caresses. His arm around you pulled you closer, and you were mere inches from face.
What fortune to be so close to him, because you witnessed his eyes flutter open. Dark, chocolate irises welcomed you, and you wished with your heart that you could dive into them, and be forever lost in their haze.
“Morning,” you uttered, smiling.
He offered a lazy one in return. “Morning, my love.”
You almost beamed. “I love it when you say that.”
His brow raised absentmindedly. “What? Morning?”
You tutted. “I think you need to sleep some more.”
“Hmmm…” he nuzzled into your neck, closing his eyes. “I will if you sleep with me.”
“But I already am.”
He craned his head back, nestled in your chest. “I think you know what I mean, vita.”
Involuntarily, you caught your lower lip between your teeth, and by the look on Jihoon’s face, he had half a mind to copy your actions.
Perhaps you would have let him too, if you did not hear a suspicious sound.
You perked up, head turning towards the door, where the origins of the voice—voices, as you listened in—lay. Your husband, catching onto your change of countenance, stretched himself before sitting up straighter, eyes squinting at the door.
Grabbing onto your clothes, which lay unceremoniously on the floor, you half-dressed yourselves before you reached just before the entrance of the room. The voices were much louder, a sense of agitation filling each one.
The loudest of the noise, amongst all the bickering, was a soft wail.
“—you stupid prick, I told you not to feed it that!”
“Well how was I supposed to know what it likes?”
“I hope you and Seokmin never have children—”
“Gods, Jihoon is going to be raging mad—!”
“What it deserves for being called Cheol—!”
You did not get to hear the end of the discussion, for Jihoon grabbed onto the doorknob and burst open the door.
Shrieks were heard on the entrance, five centurions stumbling into your bedroom, one with a special, wailing package in his hand.
“By the gods!” your husband exclaimed, shaking his head at his subordinates, scrambling to stand straight. “What are you all doing, muttering about behind our door?”
“Uhh…general!” Wonwoo declared, earning a sharp hiss from his friends. “We actually…uhhh…” He looked at the others, confused. “What were we here for?”
Soonyoung, rubbing his temples, seethed, “Seungcheol, you idiot!”
“Ah, yes!” Wonwoo straightened, deepening his voice to pretend sobriety. “Seungcheol!”
Seokmin’s eyes widened. “But Seungcheol died years ago!”
Seungkwan then smacked him around the head. “Not that Seungcheol, you fucking idiot!”
You are the fucking idiot, you ugly bastard!”
You glanced at Chan, whose focus only lay on the crying child. The one who held him looked as if he might burst into tears too, but you spoke up before you had any more crying children in the house. “Here, let me tend to him.”
The boy handed you your son, but you noticed he dared not look you in the eye. “Is something the matter?” you asked him softly.
Soonyoung scoffed at your question. “Silly little virgin has been shitting his toga ever since he heard you two fucking like rabid dogs.”
“Watch your filthy mouth,” your husband guttered, which had the scolded-man shrinking back behind Wonwoo.
Seokmin snickered, Seungkwan smirking as you glanced at the youngest. “Chan…” you trailed off, not really sure on what to say.
Thankfully, your husband seemed to have a solution. “Chan, please grow up,” he remarked, crossing his arms over his tousled clothing. “You were holding my child mere seconds ago.”
“He just needs to stick his cock into someone,” Seungkwan said, a bit too matter-of-factly.
“Or something,” added Seokmin, the honey wine clearly still talking.
You saw Chan physically recoil from the statement. “What did you even have in mind?” Wonwoo asked, nose scrunching in distaste. “Actually, I do not want to know.”
“Sober up, the lot of you,” you said, unable to stay serious, despite the death glares Jihoon offered them. “I need you all to help me clean the place up today.”
Everyone unanimously groaned, causing the latter to get irritated. “If I hear a sound from you pathetic drunkards, then it’s 40 miles around the city.”
Soonyoung turned his head to you, clearly exasperated. “_____, did you bite his cock or something?”
“Soonyoung!” You gasped.
“I need to lie down,” Wonwoo groaned, turning towards the door. “I shall be dunking myself in a well nearby.”
“Take Seokmin with you,” Seungkwan drawled, fixing his hair. “Maybe this time he will actually drown.”
“If I drown little man, I’m taking you with me,” the man snapped.
“Chan, dear, please sort them out,” you requested, hearing him sigh.
“I shall try my best, my lady,” he mumbled, knowing that his best efforts will be in vain.
As he began to leave, you called out his name. He looked back, and you smiled as you rocked Seungcheol in your arms. “You are his favourite, Chan.”
The revelation had his frown morphing into a small smile, bowing his head ever so slightly before turning to his centurions. “Let us give our general some privacy.”
Seokmin grumbled underneath his breath, following after Chan. “As if they had not had enough privacy…could have made another baby for all we know…”
Jihoon focused his gaze on Soonyoung and Seungkwan. “Remember. No fucking about or it’s 40 miles.”
The latter waved his hand, opening the door. “Yes, yes, we are aware.”
Soonyoung mocked a salute, adorning a most dramatic drawl. “Of course, your excellency, no doubt at all, your royal highness, please, do give us further idiotic orders to taunt us with, your magnanimous majesty!”
Jihoon’s glare did not waver. “Get out.”
“…right on, general.”
And so the last of the centurions were out, you standing at the door as they made to leave. Before they exited, though, they all simultaneously waved at you, some a bit too enthusiastically, others a soft gesture.
“Ave, _____! Ave, general!”
And they left, laughing already with plans to bring more merriment into their lives.
Your husband joined you, leaning against the opposite door frame. “I have a feeling they’re going to drag poor Chan into some brothel.”
“I think the boy would pass out before that would take place,” you said, chuckling as you glanced down at your child. “At least he takes care of Cheol well.”
“Does he?“
“…better than the average soldier, then.”
“At least they had fun yesterday.” Jihoon took a step closer, observing his son giggling at his mother’s entertainment. “Though they test my patience everyday, they deserve all the reward.”
“Do not exclude yourself, my love,” you reminded him. “You did not enslave yourself to your armies to disregard yourself like that.”
“I do not exclude myself.” His hand reached out, holding Seungcheol’s little head. How strange, that his entire head could fit in his palm. “I am simply happy with what I have right now.”
He offered you a smile. “I am more than happy with you and my son beside me. I ask for nothing more.”
You returned his smile, heart bursting at the seams as he leaned in, enveloping your lips with his in a sweet kiss.
And as the two of you played with your son in the morning light of the Roman sun, you snuck glances at your husband, the light of the Empire. The Eagle of Rome.
i do think it’s criminal that it’s taken me This long to read a user amourcheol fic but. IM HERE. and i'm so very ready – the premise of this was too good to pass up, especially because my brother recently watched gladiator 2 for the first time and info dumped about both movies to me (i watched the first sooo long ago and havent seen the second yet but. ANYWAY.)
their reunion…. mea vita…… kissing you with “the longing of a thousand lost souls”............ fia dont u know im INSANE. + the cameos from the boys just after are like a perfect touch of levity to balance out the gravity of the scene, Loved the characterisation of chan so much omfg what a cutie. ALSO “Soonyoung’s cock is as clean as the city sewers.” caught me so offguard i snorted.
Nodding your head, you put your hand upon the stone. “Jihoon, while you were gone, I had a life-changing experience.”
Furrowing his brows, he put his hands on his hips. “And that was?”
Exposing a little smile, you ushered him closer, gazing down at the said-experience.
“My love, I gave birth to our son.”
^ the noise i MADEEE i literally did not expect this but. AGH. and i do think that’s a testament to how well you fleshed out the characters, their dynamic and their pure love for each other - i was not expecting to get attached so fast. but i AM.
He could only watch the little bundle of life as he dreamed of things which he could not understand, tiny lips brushing against his tiny thumb. The man’s heart began to race at the sight of his closed eyes, the flutter of his lashes as he stirred in slumber.
So innocent the baby was—so vulnerable that he wondered whether people of his time even knew what innocence meant.
^ your writing is stupid good. like the stylistic choices to fit the world you’ve created are gorgeous, and the imagery….. sigh it’s just so good. you can Feel how overwhelmed he is, but also the tenderness and love he already harbours towards his son, and thats all done with your beautiful writing.
AND SEUNGCHEOL’S STORY…. why would u break my heart like this. have u heard of peace and love and happiness. Jokes aside, i do think it’s such a lovely addition to the fic – adds a whole new layer to their relationship by exposing shared grief and loss, which in turn sheds light on our main characters’ motivations. It’s so cleverly done fia u are a Genius.
“Thank you, my love, for bringing me peace.”
^ right well. it’s been fun. goodbye forever! (sorry but… her heart is his home,,, to love and to be loved is to rest, etc etc. i will cry)
“Perhaps it was better you did not give me a mere hour, vita.”
You looked back. Leaning against the stone cot, he let his lips curl upwards. “It simply would not suffice.”
The curiosity in your eyes had him further smirking. “I need an entire day to make up for the two years of absence from you.”
It was sheer luck you were holding onto the doorframe.
“Careful, love,” he cooed, which only had you stumbling further out of the door in shock. His laughter followed you faintly as you left the room, blood rushing to your cheeks in drastic speed.
and all the scenes that come after……
“Let them have their fun!” Soonyoung roared, which had the baby crying louder. “Gods, Chan, you are the youngest after Cheol. Handle this sobbing mess!”
“I have seen twenty summers,” Chan muttered.
“Yes, so a baby in my eyes!”
“Of course you are going to consider Chan as a baby, you geriatric. It’s a wonder you did not collapse on the battlefield.”
"I will kill you in the next war, Seungkwan.”
JD.KLWEFUESGEL im literally obsessed with them sorry. Chan taking care of the baby is so sweet and soft,, and their memories of seungcheol??? such a specific brand of fond reminiscing that you portray SO well, u can so clearly feel all the affection they have for him
AHSGFH anyway i just finished and i feel like i could wax poetic about this but instead i’ll drop a poem it reminded me of:
fia every word you write is executed incredibly and i admire your brain so much. i think your world building is rich and immersive in a way that makes it feel like it’s always existed, and we’re just lucky enough to glimpse it through your eyes for 16k words. and your characters live and breathe, layered and memorable, even (older) seungcheol who is “offscreen” the whole time, and still you manage to create such a strong impression of him. you brought this world to life so beautifully.
SYNOPSIS. You’ve carried nothing but bad luck bouncing between jobs. However, after managing to land a spot as a lifeguard at Carat Bay for the summer, your curiosities start to drift towards the waterpark’s prideful boba shop owner, Lee Chan, who somehow always ends up in your lane—both literally and figuratively. You came for a summer job, not to dive headfirst into a bantering game of cat and mouse.
PAIRING. boba shop owner!lee chan x mat racer attendant!fem!reader (ft. soonyoung, vernon, a mention of joshua, & nayeon from twice)
GENRE. fluff, crack/humour, slightly suggestive, enemies (more like annoyances?) to lovers
WARNINGS. cursing, so much banter, bickering, and flirting between them, chan flirts like a competitive sport and yn is tired of his shit but loves it anyway, mention of weed and alcohol drinking, shirtless chan moment, kissing
WORD COUNT. 11.5k
notes: this is definitely not my proudest fic, sadly not proofread and rushed and the plot was not plotting, but i hope u all enjoy nonetheless! also sorry for having not posted any fic in a while, but i promise new exciting things are coming!! this is for the @camandemstudios carat bay collab !! pls check out the other fics by the other wonderfully talented authors in the collab as well <3 i'm so happy i was able to write for dino again hehe 🥺
You certainly did not expect for your resume to land you a job at the Carat Bay Waterpark. But you would probably take anything at this point𑁋the awful luck you’ve been having with going through over a dozen dead-end gigs is enough to make even a lifeguard position of watching people belly flop off slides seem like divine intervention.
At least the uniform you have on is cute. Kind of.
You find yourself staring down the six-lane, neon-striped monstrosity of a slide, watching as kids, teenagers, and adults race down atop of foam mats at death-defying speeds. Your job? Blow your little whistle, make sure the guests adhere to the requirements, give a thumbs-up, and pray to the heavens above that no one faceplants on the way down.
The only thing worse than getting sunburnt in the literal summer heat is doing it while babysitting overly enthusiastic kids and pretending you know what you’re doing when you definitely do not. But alas, faking customer service seems to be one of your quirkiest perks when you’ve had experience juggling between three jobs back in your early college days just to pay rent.
You sigh as you rest against the post of the mat racer startling line, feeling your shirt stick to your back from sweat like industrial glue. It’s only the first day, and you have no idea how you’ll be able to get through the rest of summer without evaporating.
Then, a rag is suddenly thrown in your face, snapping you back out of your thoughts.
“Break time, girl,” Nayeon coos with a smirk as the rag falls uselessly in your lap. “Go hydrate before you traumatise some eight-year-old.”
You immediately stand up at that. “God, you’re a saint.”
Normally, it’s hard for people to make friends on the first day of the job. However, Nayeon was quick to breeze her way into your shift as if she owned the damn place. She’s already dubbed herself as your “waterpark big sister” and seems very determined to make sure you don’t die from dehydration or despair before the week is done𑁋apparently it’s common with new employees, and you’re just one of the stubborn ones who hasn’t dipped on the first day.
“Thirty minutes is kinda a lot,” You say, dabbing at the sweat on your forehead with the rag under your hat. “Got any good places to go to?”
Nayeon lets out a contemplative hum, before her face breaks into a grin as if she’s been waiting her whole life for someone to ask her this. “Do I ever!” Then she crosses her arms mischievously. “You like boba?’
“Who doesn’t like boba?”
“Well, you’re in for a treat, babe,” Nayeon replies cheekily. “Go past the Lazy River. There’s a little boba shop near the churro cart. Called Chan’s Bubble Bar.”
You snort a little. “That’s seriously what it’s called?”
“Yep, unfortunately.” Nayeon clicks her tongue. “Owner is the most insufferable boba genius and flirts like a competitive sport. So, take that as you will.”
With that cryptic warning, she excitedly shoos you off like a mom sending her kid off to kindergarten on the first day of school. You navigate past crowds of sunburnt tourists and overly sunscreened children wielding ice cream cones light lightsabers, heading past the Lazy River.
You spot the shop in question. It isn’t that hard to miss.
The sign overhead is clearly hand-painted, the letters uneven but bold. There’s a small chalkboard menu sitting right at the entrance, and your eyebrows knit together as some of the absurdly ridiculous names for drinks listed on there. Seriously, what the hell is a Don’t be Chai, Better Than My Ex, and a Trust Me, Bro drink?
Rolling your eyes, you push the door open and head inside, immediately met by the smell of sweet tapioca syrup and fresh fruits. The cool air from the air conditioning is an absolute godsend compared to the boiling sun outside. It’s a tiny space, somewhat cozy in some odd way you can’t exactly explain.
On one wall, there’s a column of colourful surfboards, and there’s a section where you spot a bunch of polaroids and neon post-it notes containing handwritten reviews from customers.
There isn’t anyone at the counter, but you hear the faint sounds of music playing from somewhere in the back𑁋the door to the back is just a bunch of hanging beads of what seem to be seashells.
You’re about to call out when a head pops up from under the counter𑁋followed by a startled yelp.
“Jesus!” You both blurt out in surprise at the same time.
You stumble back a step, and the guy straightens up. He looks around your age, his dark hair is tousled, wearing a sleeveless black top that conveniently shows off his large ass arms, a chain necklace dangling around his neck, with an apron exclaiming YES, I’M THE OWNER LEE CHAN. God, he’s built like the exact epitome of a summer fling in an awful summer YA novel. And he looks way too pleased with himself for someone who nearly gave you a heart attack.
When his eyes lock on yours, it lingers. Just a little.
“Do you live under there or something?” You ask breathlessly, clutching at your chest.
Chan grins, shaking his head. “The universe likes to break the register sometimes. Little discrimination for small business owners, I guess.” He wipes off a matcha stain on his apron. “Anyway, you don’t look like one of my regular customers. Too tense, awful posture, and lifeguard-y. First day?”
You blink at that. “That obvious, huh?”
“You radiate the whole I-just-signed-my-life-off-for-minimum-wage deal,” Chan says matter-of-factly, dramatically motioning over your figure.
You roll your eyes. “Jeez, do you always psychoanalyse your customers? Read out their horoscope descriptions or something?”
“Only the cute ones.”
You nearly choke on air at his words. Chan doesn’t even flinch, just flashes you a smug, lopsided smile like he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s cute𑁋you curse at yourself for mentally thinking that. You hate that he’s cute. And hate that you know he’s probably going to be an absolute pain in the ass for your summer.
Chan leans on the counter, clasping his hands together expectantly. “Alright, rookie, what will it be?”
You pretend to think, trailing your eyes over to another menu displayed on a little stand right next to him. All the drinks listed on there seem like they were created by an entire frat house, and you aren’t sure if it’s helping with your appetite or not. Either way, Nayeon did say he’s an insufferable boba genius.
The insufferable part is right on point.
“Surprise me,” You tell him with your arms crossed, already feeling like you’ll regret saying that.
Chan’s obnoxious grin only widens at that.
“Dangerous game,” he quips, tapping his fingers on the counter rhythmically. “Give me a few minutes to work my magic.” Then he turns to the back to yell out, “Soonyoung! Get me the watermelon popping pearls!”
There’s a sudden loud crash from the back, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone tripping. Then a few seconds later, a new guy emerges out from the curtain of seashells. His hair is half-dyed red and black, and there’s a slap of flour on his cheek that he rubs away. You watch him𑁋Soonyoung𑁋shoot a glare towards Chan, clearly showing this isn’t the first time he’s been summoned.
“Do I look like your kitchen elf, dude?” Soonyoung remarks annoyingly, grumbling under his breath.
“Hey, I pay you with unlimited access to the lychee slushies. Emotional damage is part of that too,” Chan retorts back while already preparing your mystery drink like he’s on some sort of culinary show.
Soonyoung just scoffs, teasing over the jar of tapioca pearls to Chan with the perfect underhand. He shoots a brief glance to you, then to Chan, before disappearing to the back, the beads clinging behind him.
Your eyes shift back to Chan, watching as he breezes through the process with an annoying kind of confidence. As if he’s done this a thousand times before. As if he knows this is going to impress you, which dammit, it kind of is. He shakes the cup, mixing all the mystery ingredients with a dramatic flair, his brows furrowed in concentration that should not be as attractive as it is.
When he finishes, he slides the cup over to you on the counter. It’s a swirl of pale green with watermelon tapioca pearls. You eye the drink curiously, taking it in your hands, the cold surface of the plastic cup and melting into your hand.
“Honeydew base, watermelon pearls, splash of coconut milk, and a dash of lime zest,” Chan announces like he’s showing off a Michelin-star dish. “Coined the Existential Crisis.”
He watches as you take a tentative sip of the drink.
You swear your soul nearly leaves your body. Because of course it’s good. Really damn good.
You take another sip, more confident this time, trying to not let your face betray the fact that Chan just changed your entire trajectory of your entire breaktime snack expectations. But Chan seems to see right through it, already wearing that smirk to his face.
“Holy shit.”
Chan’s face practically beams. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say it was good.”
“I believe holy shit translates to amazing.”
You feel your face flush at that. As you take another generous sip, you reach for your wallet to pull out some cash, but Chan stops you with a hand.
“It’s on the house,” he says.
You blink at him. “What? Why?”
Chan shrugs, resting his elbows atop the counter. “Consider it a welcome gift to the Carat Bay ecosystem, rookie.”
You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him.. “Let me guess. Next time it’s twelve bucks and emotional manipulation?”
“Right on target!” Chan exclaims enthusiastically.
You shake your head, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips as you start backpedaling towards the door. “You’re going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you?”
“Get used to it.” Chan shoots you a wink while wiping down the counter. “See you later, rookie!”
When the door shuts behind you, you find yourself taking sips on the drink while heading your way back to your post. The thought of Chan keeps flitting back in your mind with every step that you nearly bump into a child wearing a life-sized otter floatie.
Suddenly, summer is going to get a lot more interesting.
Back in the shop, Soonyoung reappears from the back like an aunt getting ready for gossip. He leans on the counter with his arms crossed, observing Chan whistle to himself as if he didn’t just flirt his entire soul with the new employee.
Chan shoots him a side-eye. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I haven’t seen you this smitten ever since that influencer chick two summers ago,” Soonyoung continues. “where you wrote her a haiku on a napkin. A fucking haiku!”
Chan groans, running a hand down his face. “First of all, that haiku came from the bottom of my heart. And second𑁋” He points towards the door where you just left a minute ago. “𑁋I was not smitten. That was polite customer service, thank you very much.”
Soonyoung snorts. “Oh, my God! You’re down bad for the rookie and you don’t even know her name! This summer is going to be lit.”
“Get back to work, hyung.”
“I am at work.”
Chan chugs a rag at the older boy before flipping him off. “I hate you.”
“The feeling’s mutual, Romeo.” Soonyoung grins as he catches the rag with ease. “Just remember that I will be playing sad Taylor Swift songs during closing if you get heartbroken again.”
“We already play sad Taylor Swift songs during closing.”
“Exactly! I’ll just turn up the volume even more,” Soonyoung declares eagerly. He waits for a moment for Chan to retort back, but as he catches the slightly pensive look on his face, he adds reassuringly, “She’ll come back, dude.”
Chan sighs, glancing between the door and from your cup stood on the counter.
“...yeah, I hope so.”
There’s a child crying in front of you. A little girl.
You and Nayeon are staring at her like she’s the spawn of Satan.
Not because she’s done anything wrong𑁋she hasn’t, exactly. In fact, she’s probably the most tragically adorable thing you’ve seen the entire day, with her two pigtails and frilly Frozen swimsuit, her apple cheeks and eyes red from crying. She’s probably around six years old.
But you’re both attendants and clearly not trained in early-childhood emotional breakdowns. And this one is clearly at maximum level.
Nayeon leans over to you and whispers, “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” You hiss back to her. “I was just drinking my water and then bam𑁋she appeared like a ghost.”
“What is she, a Pokémon?” Nayeon rolls her eyes, before crouching down to be eye-level with the little girl. “Hi, honey, what’s your name?”
The little girl sniffles, wiping away the snot at her nose. “Jiyu.”
“Okay, Jiyu, can you tell me where your parents are?” Nayeon asks softly, but Jiyu’s lip wobbles in response, as if she’s trying to hold in another round of tears.
You glance frantically from where you’re high up on the Mat Racer post, but it’s obviously the most useless thing to do when the entire waterpark is just one big chaotic mess. You can barely spot the nearby bathrooms, so spotting a lost child’s parents is quite literally like finding a needle in a haystack. And if her parents were really trying to find her, then they clearly aren’t making themselves known.
“Mommy said… that she went to get boba,” Jiyu croaks out in a series of hiccups. “But she didn’t, um… she didn’t come back.”
“The boba shop?” Nayeon questions, trying to keep her tone light and soothing.
“The one with the big loud man,” Jiyu sniffles again, motioning in a direction that could probably mean at least fifteen different shops, but there’s really only one singular boba shop in the entire waterpark and one with a ‘big loud man’.
You swear your head almost falls off your neck.
“Chan,” You utter his name out like the universe bestowed a curse on you.
Nayeon rises up from the floor, turning toward you. “Here, I’ll radio security to see if any report has come in. You can take her to the boba shop and see if anyone recognises her, yeah?”
You groan dramatically, wanting to protest. “God, you want me to face the tier A level himbo?”
But Nayeon is already fiddling with her radio pack, her back turned towards you. And before you can say any last minute attempt to escape, Jiyu is already latched onto your leg like a barnacle, her tiny hand pulling at your finger which seems to ultimately mean that you’re officially her unofficial legal guardian for the next hour, or however long it will take for her mother to come back.
The walk is awkward, because how the hell do you talk to a six-year-old who just sobbed her eyes out at the top of Mat Racer? At one point, she quietly asks what your name is like any curious child and you respond in kind. Then you try to lighten the mood by pointing out a duck floatie that was casually floating down the stream of the Lazy River, but all Jiyu does is give a small nod and an indecipherable mumble.
Well, you tried.
You have to mentally prepare yourself with a deep breath before walking into the boba shop. You push through the door with one hand, the other clutched around Jiyu’s. You saunter past a few customers heading back outside with their illegally delicious-looking cups of boba and come to a stop right at the counter.
Unsurprisingly, Chan is whipping up another drink like he’s got a PhD in Mixology, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to reveal his annoyingly attractive forearms. His hair appears almost damp from sweat𑁋clearly from heat, you remind yourself, not because he looks good like that. Definitely not.
When Chan turns around, his eyes lock with yours, and his face lights up in a way that’s completely unfair. Then his gaze drifts downward, catching sight of Jiyu tied to your leg like a clingy koala.
“Wow, rookie,” he starts. “Two weeks in and I find out you have a child?”
You give him a flat look. “Yes, and I was pregnant for exactly zero days.”
“Well, you’re glowing,” Chan remarks playfully. “Must be that post-pregnancy aura.”
You roll your eyes, immediately regretting every life decision you made to come here𑁋it’s clear that Chan has less of an emotional maturity than Jiyu (or so you believe). You step closer to the counter and motion helplessly to Jiyu down at your side, who is still clutching at your hand as if she’s trying to merge her existence with yours.
“She said her mom went to get boba and never showed back up, so congratulations,” You remark sarcastically. “you’re part of the mystery too.”
Chan’s eyes furrow at that, and he leans on the counter, expression softening towards Jiyu.
“Hey, kiddo, what’s your name?” he asks, and the way his voice is all of a sudden soft is enough to make your head spin in a rather… an uncomfortably comfortable way.
Jiyu shyly peeks out from behind your leg and whispers, “Jiyu.”
“What a pretty name. My name is Chan,” Chan coos, and the smile he wears isn’t that familiar shit-eating one, but gentler, slightly lopsided. “Jiyu, do you remember what your mom was wearing?”
“Um…” Jiyu begins warily, glancing up at the ceiling as if it held all the answers. “Flower… A flower hat!”
You let out a useless groan. “That’s, like, seventy-percent of the moms in this entire waterpark.”
“Yikes. Fortunately I did have a lady come in here wearing that exact description,” Chan says with confidence. “But she came in as fast as she left𑁋said she had to take a phone call and then ran out after I finished making her drink.”
Your feet threaten to sink into the floor. “Great.”
Chan only chuckles, turning his attention back toward Jiyu. “Well, Jiyu, since rookie here𑁋” He gestures toward you. “𑁋is clearly incompetent, what do you say you help me make a drink, yeah? Your mom will be coming back soon, I promise.”
You watch𑁋half-amused and half-terrified𑁋as Jiyu slowly lets go of your hand to toddle her way into the employee’s side of the counter, seemingly accepting the boy’s trust way more than what you’ve given her in the past fifteen minutes. Chan helps Jiyu climb up a small step stool that for some reason he already had, as well as helping her put on some kid-sized apron that’s about three times her size, like this isn’t the first time a kid had seized control of his shop.
“Jesus, are you Mary Poppins or something?” You taunt snarkily, crossing your arms together.
“Unlike you, I seem to actually care about a child’s well-being more than anything else,” Chan retorts, before turning back to Jiyu. “Alright, Jiyu, what’s your favourite color?”
Jiyu motions towards a particular syrup in front of her. “Pink!”
“Isn’t this equivalent to child labour?” You ask mindlessly.
“Only if you report it,” Chan replies, and you can already see his smirk without him having to turn around. He hands Jiyu a spoon, and she grasps it with her tiny hands in pure wonder. “But I’d say it’s morally justifiable if she walks out with a smile.”
You shake your head at that, but can’t draw your eyes away from how Jiyu and Chan are interacting𑁋the two of them going back in forth about the drink, Chan letting her pick whatever toppings she wants, and Jiyu giggling every time Chan exaggerates about how much talent she has for a little girl. At one point, Jiyu asks for your input on the drink, and you suddenly find yourself being a boba shop worker for three minutes.
It’s infuriating and adorable all at once. Infuriatingly adorable.
About twenty minutes later, Nayeon texts you that they found the mother in question, and that she was on her way to pick up Jiyu. And right now, Jiyu is sitting beside you on a bench outside the boba shop, sipping on her drink that she and Chan firmly called The Pink Princess Special, which was now a new addition to the menu.
You’re about five minutes into zoning out when a drink is suddenly shoved in front of your face.
“For the babysitter,” Chan says smoothly.
You blink up at him, before taking the cold cup in your hands. Then he sits down right next to you for God knows why, his kneecap briefly brushing against yours.
“So, rookie,” he begins, and you already know you aren’t going to like this. “Do I finally get to know your name?”
You take a sip of the drink, and the refreshing flavour of mango strikes at your tongue, immediately cooling off your body. “No.”
“Aw, c’mon,” Chan whines. “Don’t I deserve to know the girl I co-parented a child with for the past hour?”
You shoot him a glare. “If you ever said that in a courtroom, you’re getting your ass beat.”
“That’s not very co-parental of you.”
“Oh, my God, stop calling us co-parents𑁋”
“Are you two married?” Jiyu’s small, curious voice suddenly cuts in.
You’ve never whipped your head around so fast in your life. You nearly choke on your mango drink.
Chan lets out an amused laugh. “What do you think, Jiyu? Do we look like we’re married?”
You swear your one word away from kicking Chan’s shin into the Lazy River, because you absolutely do not look like a couple. Not even close, not even in a way that would be cute in a cheesy coming-of-age movie. But of course, the oblivious, honest, and unfiltered six-year-old beats you to the punch.
Yes, it’s sort of true you’ve been avoiding telling him your name like it’s the plague. It really isn’t for a particular reason𑁋okay, maybe there is kind of a reason, but that’s none of his business. Besides, giving your name to him feels like an ego boost that he doesn’t deserve to have. It’ll definitely be a weapon for him to wield against you.
A really annoying, charming, effective weapon.
“You two argue like my mommy and daddy,” Jiyu chirps, sipping on her drink while her little legs swing back and forth on the bench. “And then they kiss right after.”
You’re about to fling your drink into the burning sun. Getting sweeped up by a tsunami doesn’t seem to be the worst thing to happen right now, or perhaps time travelling back to the moment you chose to enter the boba shop and instead hurl yourself into the wave pool.
Chan is practically vibrating right next to you, wheezing his lungs out in a fit of laughter. Gosh, does his laugh have to be the most insufferable sound you’ve ever heard? Why does it have to be so infectious, loud, and make your stomach do a flip one too many times?
“Jiyu, that’s…” Your voice trails off, because you honestly don’t know what to say to that.
Chan wipes away a fake tear rolling down his eye. “Man, I love this kid.”
“Of course you do,” You shoot back with narrowed eyes. “Probably bribed her or something.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Chan quips. “With the low price of tapioca pearls and a spot on being Employee of the Month.”
You scoff. “Don’t you literally have only, like, two people working there?”
“Exactly. It makes the competition fiercer.” Chan offers you a wink in return.
Right next to you, Jiyu glances curiously between the two of you, innocently sipping on her drink as she wears a deceptively sweet smile. And just as you and Chan are continuing to bicker, there is an almost-near bombshell that drops right at your feet.
“Mr. Big Loud Guy, I know her name!” she exclaims excitedly. “She told me her name when we were walking!”
Chan raises a brow and leans in, and he’s close enough for you to smell the faint scent of brown sugar and fruit syrup. His knee brushes against yours again. It should be illegal for him to be blessed with looking like that all while being able to easily entertain a child right under his fingertips.
“Oh, the betrayal,” he gasps, clutching at his chest theatrically. “Hey, Jiyu, if you tell me her name I’ll make sure you can make another drink on my menu.”
You barge in immediately, clenching your teeth together as you nudge him with your shoulder. “Jiyu! Want to see me spill my drink in his pants? Then I can𑁋”
“Her name is Y/N!”
That’s it. You’re going to die right here, right now. But your death isn’t caused by a heatstroke or dehydration𑁋no, it’s from complete and utter embarrassment, caused by a six-year-old Cupid in disguise and a boy with large forearms and an unnecessarily attractive laugh.
Chan shifts his eyes back to you, and you catch the mischievous glint that shines in his pupil that’s definitely not from the sun. As he’s about to open his mouth, you quickly shut him up with an aggressive shhh, which promptly translates to shut the fuck up.
“One word out of your mouth and I’m filing a restraining order.”
But Chan obviously doesn’t play by the rules.
“Y/N,” he drawls, and you don’t know if you want to slap him or kiss him just to shut him up. “Y/N, Y/N, Y/N…”
“Isn’t it a pretty name?” Jiyu beams from the side, not fully realising the hole she just shoved you in.
You groan audibly, burying your face in the palm of your sweaty hand, because of course the child you emotionally stabilised and trudged through an entire waterpark with has betrayed you in the most lethal way possible. Throwing yourself into the Lazy River doesn’t seem enough𑁋you’d rather willingly fall into the koi pond so all the fish can nibble away at your pride and sanity.
“It is pretty,” Chan responds smugly, though you swear there’s that pinch of softness too, as if he actually means it. You feel your face burn hotter, unsure if it’s completely from embarrassment or something else. “Y/N. Kinda rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”
“I liked you better when you didn’t know it.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“You’re right. I didn’t like you at all.”
“Okay, but you do look like a Y/N.”
“What does that even mean?” You counter back with a scowl. “Are you saying I look like a noun?”
Chan tilts his head, pretending to think. “A… pretty noun.”
You turn your head sharply to hide the way your lips threaten to twitch upward at that. You’re not smiling𑁋you’re actually frowning so hard your face might as well crumble apart in pieces. And that warm, fluttery feeling that blooms in your chest? Oh, it’s just good old classic indigestion from how impossibly delicious this mango boba is.
A frantic voice suddenly cuts through your thoughts. Thank the heavens.
“Jiyu!” There’s a panicked woman running up in your direction, her flower hat nearly falling off her hand from how rushed she is.
Jiyu immediately springs up from the bench and hops onto the ground, dashing into her mother’s arms. “Mommy!”
The woman catches Jiyu in her arms with a relieved gasp, sinking down to her knees. “Oh, sweetheart, I was so worried𑁋are you okay?”
“Yes! I made two new friends!” Jiyu motions over to you and Chan. “And we made a drink together!”
At that moment, you and Chan exchange a look with each other. It’s clear that the two of you obviously didn’t mean to, but it still happens. It lingers for a moment too long to be brushed off as pure coincidence.
The mother lets out a barrel of apologies before smiling to the both of you. “Thank you both so much. I was so worried!”
“She was in good hands,” Chan says gratefully, standing up casually and pretending that he wasn’t just blackmailing a child for your name two minutes ago. “Made a killer drink for the menu, probably the next bestseller.”
Jiyu’s mom chuckles, standing up and reaching down to hold the little girl’s hand, mimicking a waving action. “Say thank you, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, Y/N! Thank you Mr. Big Loud Guy!” She gives the two of you a precious, delightful wave before walking in the opposite direction, still clutching the drink in her hands as if it’s a memory she knows she’ll cherish.
Gosh, no matter how nightmarish kids are these days, your heart still feels full knowing you made at least one’s day better.
But then you remember that Chan is still next to you. Yet, your heart doesn’t seem to want to deflate from the thought of that.
“I say we make a great team,” he inputs with a cheesy grin.
You roll your eyes. “No, you were better with her than me.”
“Is… is that a compliment I smell?” Chan eyes you up and down with suspicion.
“I’m sure a straw through your head would compliment you dearly.”
“Romantic.”
You flip him off over your shoulder as you’re walking away to return back to your post. You cannot wait to explain all the shit that’s happened in the past thirty minutes and explain to your supervisor why the hell you were gone for so long.
“See you later, Y/N!” You hear Chan call you from behind.
You’re not smiling.
You’re definitely not smiling.
God, you’re so screwed.
So, you can probably say the past month of working at the waterpark has been… chaos. Just pure, unrelenting chaos.
On one side of the deep end, you have to deal with screaming toddlers afraid to go down the giant Mat Racer slide; and on the other side of the deep end, you have to suffer through hearing a particular boy’s annoyingly perfect laugh.
You’ve really tried to not think about Chan and all your interactions thus far. Either way, he probably does this with nearly every other worker he comes across𑁋flirts a lot, teases a lot, gets under their skin a lot. Maybe you’re not that special. Maybe you’re just another Wednesday at Carat Bay for him.
But why does the thought make your heart ache?
Chan may have the ego and confidence the size of a fucking mountain, but the worst part is that he knows what he’s doing. He knows the effect he has on people, on you. And somehow, he’s become a permanent fixture in your shifts𑁋whether it’s by bickering with you until the end of time, or by secretly sending you over free drinks to your stand (where you have to joy to watch Nayeon get jealous).
“Is he always like this?” You ask Soonyoung as you’re sipping on a drink on Chan’s menu called the Don’t Be Chai. “Like, is he always a pain in the ass?”
Soonyoung raises a brow at you from the other side of the counter. Chan was currently out in the back during inventory or whatever with his sleeves rolled up like the menace to society he is. You finally clocked out of your shift and decided to hopelessly confide in the boy’s henchman, which may or may not be the best idea at all.
“I’ve dealt with his ass for the past ten years,” Soonyoung says while wiping down the counter. “Trust me, it gets better.”
Your posture straightens. “Does it?”
“No, it gets worse.”
You slump back in the seat.
Soonyoung lets out a small laugh as he slowly drags the rag from one end of the counter to the other.
“But you know, you get used to it,” he adds. “Teasing is like his love language or whatever.”
You blink up at him. “His what?”
“His love language.” Soonyoung repeats, giving a casual shrug. “That little shit would rather piss his pants than say ‘I like you’, so instead he’ll annoy you into oblivion. Behind those dumbass eyes? He cries to strangers’ wedding proposals on TikTok.”
You almost choke on your drink at that. “No way in hell.”
“Oh yeah! I wish I was kidding.” Soonyoung’s practically beaming at this point. “Man tries to keep his little hopeless romantic heart lowkey though. But the second you say anything genuine to him? His brain absolutely short-fucking-circuits.”
You blink. Once. Twice. Trying to process everything.
“He’s probably like this with everyone, you know,” You mutter quietly, trying to hide behind the rim of your drink as if it’ll save you.
This earns you a loud scoff from Soonyoung. “Trust me, dude, I know him like the lines on the back of my hand.” And then he stares at you, trying to decipher the contemplative look to your face. “Do you like him?”
You blink again, then look away. It’s safer, probably𑁋less revealing.
“I think I’d rather swallow pool water,” You counter back, but it’s useless.
“So… that’s a yes.”
“That is not a yes.”
“It sounds like a yes in my vocabulary.”
You groan defeatedly, because of course this boba shop is run by idiots.
“If you say a word of this to Chan, I will throw my drink in your face the next time I see you,” You threaten, holding a tight grip around the cup like a weapon.
Soonyoung holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I swear on his fourth grade spelling bee participation award.”
You scrunch your face up at that. “He has one?”
“Yeah. It was pure trauma. He refuses to spell the word onomatopoeia to this day.”
The image of a young Chan shaking in front of a large crowd while probably trying not to break down swearing vengeance on the spelling deities makes you laugh𑁋an unguarded, stupidly fond laugh.
Unfortunately, it’s the exact moment when Chan walks back inside too.
He emerges from the curtain of beads, wiping his hands on a towel and raising an eyebrow between the two of you. His hair is a fluffed up mess, his sleeves rolled out as usual, and there’s a faint smudge of something sugary on his cheek. His dumb, pretty cheek.
“What’s so funny?” he asks, throwing the towel over his shoulder.
You can feel his annoyance radiating onto you, but all you do is lean in slightly on the counter, still giggling. “Hey, Chan, can you spell ‘onomatopoeia’?”
Chan gasps as if you’ve offended every cell in his body, and he turns to Soonyoung with a glare. “You told rookie about the bee, didn’t you?”
“It’s a core memory, how could I not?” Soonyoung retorts back. “You stuttered so hard up there the judges thought you spelled it with three m’s and eliminated you.”
“Oh, my God,” Chan groans, dragging his hand up and down his sweaty face. “I’m going to fucking sue you both for emotional damages.”
This only makes you laugh even harder, barely noticing the way Chan is practically staring at you while you do so. He’s wearing that dumb grin on his face, and you swear that if you look close enough, there’s a flush creeping up his neck as well. But you’re too busy relishing the fact that for once, you aren’t on the small end of the stick this time.
As your laughter resides, you finally meet Chan’s eyes again. He’s just standing there, and you find yourself considering your next move.
This is probably a very stupid idea.
“You got a little thing up there,” You say, motioning to the spot on your cheek.
Chan blinks a few times, before swiping up at his face on the wrong side.
“Nope,” You say amusedly, the tone of your voice a little more sweeter. “Other side.”
He tries again, but misses the spot by about three millimetres.
You roll your eyes, straightening your posture and taking a few giant steps around the counter before you’re quite literally standing in front of him. And before he can try a third time, you lean in and swiftly swipe your finger over his cheek to wipe it off yourself.
Everything stills the second your skin touches his. His breath audibly hitches as if something got lodged in his throat. His entire body tenses up and freezes. His eyes lock with yours like a deer caught in headlights.
“There,” You mutter, thumb lingering for a second too long before pulling away. “Much better, you helpless idiot.”
Chan simply stands there like someone cut through his neural pathways enough to paralyse him on the spot. His mouth is practically hanging open, and his ears are reddening. Reddening. You’ve never seen him like this𑁋and you’ve never felt so damn proud for putting him in his place for once.
He watches as you grab your bag and your drink before starting in the direction of the door as if you didn’t just completely knock the wind out of his lungs.
“Good luck on closing tonight, boys.” You give both Chan and Soonyoung a wave while pushing the door open, eyes lingering a little longer on Chan before stepping outside into the evening night.
Soonyoung waits exactly five seconds after the door closes to burst into a fit of laughter.
“You have fucking boba eyes, dude,” he cackles, slapping a hand down on the counter. “Your brain just went 404, holy shit!”
Chan’s system is still buffering. He picks up his head slowly, still staring at the door half-expected for you to come back, but you don’t. “Did that just happen?”
“Oh, it happened, loverboy. It so happened.”
As you’re heading back to your car, innocently sipping on your drink, you can’t help but smile to yourself.
Because you learned two things today:
Teasing may be Chan’s love language, but flirting back to him?
That might be his kryptonite.
The next time you come into the boba shop, it’s on your off day.
You didn’t really mean to come here, honestly. But one of your college friends seemed way too adamant to get a sugar overload than you.
You were lucky to not be one of the chosen few attendants to be scheduled in the middle of a heatwave on a Saturday, which apparently meant that more than half the town collectively decided to seek refuge from the sun in the same ten-square-metre bubble tea shop.
Seungkwan drags you by the arm like he’s absolutely possessed. When he pushes through the door, the shop is quite… chaotic. The buzz of blenders fill the room, the scent of sugar and syrup more dizzying than ever. You find yourself having the urge to turn around, but Seungkwan just tightens his grip around your wrist.
“Come on, Y/N!” he whines, and you nearly trip as he pulls you back inside.
Seungkwan pulls you into the line of impatient customers. Okay, maybe you do feel a little bit bad that this place is run by only two idiots and it’s the peak of rush hour, but there’s no going back, and Seungkwan is actively scanning over the strange, questionable names listed on the menu.
“Trust me, Bro? Delulu Is The Solulu? Better Than My Ex?” Seungkwan reads off the names with a snort. “Rizz Me Up? What kind of deranged romantic named these drinks?”
You let out a sigh. “Chan.”
“Your Chan?”
“I𑁋He’s not my Chan,” You correct far too quickly.
Seungkwan gives you the most suspicious, skeptical, that-was-a-damn-lie-and-you-know-it look with his eyes. You could only face away from him for your sake and sanity, praying that this would just be a quick get-your-drinks and leave experience.
But the moment it becomes you and Seungkwan’s turn to order, you know that you’re going to be staying far longer than intended.
Chan doesn’t realise it’s you at first. His entire brain might have already turned to mush with the amount of customers he’s had to make drinks for in the past three hours. So when he approaches the counter like a customer service zombie on autopilot, he gives his scripted greeting without looking up.
“Welcome to Chan’s Bubble Bar, what can I get for𑁋”
And then he sees you.
His brain malfunctions again.
Because you’re standing there, clearly not in your uniform, clearly not in shift, and clearly looking way too good to be accompanied by some random guy he doesn’t recognise, whose arm is clearly wrapped snugly around yours.
The smile on his face fades before it could even fully form.
“Oh, hey, Y/N,” he murmurs. “Off-day?”
You give a shrug. “Yeah, off-day. Heard the weather was going to melt us all alive, so naturally, I got dragged here for a cold treat.”
Chan’s eyes flicker down to where Seungkwan’s hand is still comfortably looped around your arm. And maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s the fact he’s made at least fifty drinks in the past hour, but something prickles sharply underneath his skin.
It’s subtle, but enough for you to notice anyway𑁋the slight twitch at his lips, the tic of his jaw, the very unsubtle glance he shoots between you and Seungkwan. For some reason, it’s kind of… adorable. In some tragic, jealous-boy way.
“What can I get for you both?” Chan asks, trying to keep his tone neutral.
“Hmm…” Seungkwan presses his lips together. “You know, I really have questions about your unhinged drink names. But I’ll take the Delulu Is The Solulu. Put extra tapioca because I do not fear death.”
“One Delulu Is The Solulu…” Chan punches in the order on the register with a bit too much force under his fingertips. Then he looks at you. “And for you, rookie?”
You think for a moment, before smiling at him. “Surprise me.”
He stares at you for a few seconds as if you’ve just said something in a foreign language. Then he repeats what you’ve both ordered under his breath, punching a few buttons on the register, before giving the two of you a flat nod.
“Order number forty-nine. It’ll be out in a few minutes. Next in line!” he exclaims, flicking the receipt from the printer and tossing it in you and Seungkwan’s faces𑁋you barely manage to catch it before Seungkwan pulls you to the side.
You and Seungkwan both find yourself standing at the corner of the shop. From where you stand, you watch as Chan swiftly makes his drinks in his usual decorum, but it’s quite obvious to see how he’s a bit… on edge, turning his little bubble tea shop into his personal Hell’s Kitchen. You see how he pours the syrup and shakes the cups a bit too aggressively as if they’ve personally offended his ancestors.
“Goodness, did you see how he glared at me?” Seungkwan nudges you while whispering. “He looked like he wanted to throw a blender in my face. His cortisol levels must be through the roof.”
You try not to smile. You really do. “That’s just his customer service face.”
“Right, Sherlock. And I’m fucking Beyoncé, babe,” Seungkwan rolls his eyes. “I swear, if he bursts a blood vessel and it gets in my drink I will be suing.”
“Trust me, Boo. His drinks are amazing.” You assure to your heart’s content, because you’re not wrong𑁋his drinks have changed your entire world and standards on boba, honestly.
It takes about five minutes for your drinks to be made. A bell dings across the shop.
“Order forty-nine!” Chan’s voice loudly bounces off the walls of the shop.
You and Seungkwan head over to the counter where Chan places two drinks on top. The first one he sets down a bit too roughly the contents inside the cup of shake, but for the second one, he places it down more softly, sliding it over to you directly.
Seungkwan’s drink looks aggressively pink and filled with an abundance of tapioca pearls, nearly resembling some sort of rogue science experiment gone wrong. On the other hand, yours appears carefully crafted. The base colour is clearly your favourite fruit, topped with rainbow pearls, lychee popping boba, and a perfect drizzle of cream foam𑁋with the addition of a tiny heart drawn in the foam.
Cute.
Seungkwan takes an experimental sip of the drink, face wrinkling from the sweetness, before his eyes widen.
“Holy shit, this is good,” he huffs out with a laugh. “I’m definitely waking up with a sugar high the next morning, but damn, it hits the spot! But seriously, fourteen bucks?”
Chan shrugs from behind the counter. “Sorry, charged a little extra for yours with a flirting tax.”
You nearly spit out your drink on the first sip, and not because it’s bad𑁋it’s far from bad actually, practically perfection, but the absolute deadpan of a delivery from Chan was not what you expected at all.
Seungkwan chokes on his boba beside you. “I’m sorry, buddy, a flirting tax? What kind of emotionally repressed, capitalism-driven nonsensical softboy shit𑁋”
Chan just shrugs again, busying himself with wiping down the counter, but you can clearly tell he’s enjoying this. “Just doing my job, man.”
You’re trying very, very hard not to laugh, biting down on your lip to stifle the grin threatening its way across your features. Seungkwan looks like he’s about to jump over the counter Mission Impossible style to throw hands, while Chan just wears his familiar and annoyingly smug expression, clearly satisfied in the most petty way possible.
“Jeez, dude, trust me I am not trying not to steal your girl,” Seungkwan adds defensively, choosing violence as always. “And yes, for the record, she talks about you so much I’m going to need some earplugs.”
At that, Chan finally looks up, fingers halting mid-swipe. A flicker of surprise, then triumph, flashing past his eyes.
“She talks about me?” he asks slowly, carefully.
“The hell she does,” Seungkwan continues, seemingly completely unfazed by the way you feel like you’re boiling from the side, the coldness from your drink not helping at all. “At this point, I’ve memorised your entire birth chart because of her, and there’s clearly some sexual ten𑁋”
“Alright, Boo, I get it! You need love and attention!” You interject quickly, elbowing him in the ribs hard enough to make him shut up and wince. “Go to the timeout corner right now.”
Seungkwan merely chuckles proudly, skipping off to the corner with his overly sugary drink in hand. Of course your best friend just had to nearly ruin everything. You watch as Seungkwan stands at the side, beaming at the two of you with popcorn-level interest, before you turn back to Chan with a sigh.
He’s still staring at you, a small smile playing on his lips. It’s still laced with his annoying pride, yet there’s also something undeniable soft about it too. He opens his mouth to speak, but you swiftly put a hand up.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” You tell him.
Chan just smirks. “Too late.” Then he leans in on the counter. “You talk about me?”
You glance away for a second, the smile on your face refusing to fade. “Are you going to be more insufferable if I said yes?”
“Absofuckinglutely.”
You snort at that. Briefly, you glance down at the curated heart in the foam, then back up at Chan. Warmth bubbles between the crevices of your ribs.
“You’re cute when you’re jealous,” You admit quietly, masking away the confession with a sip of your drink.
Chan blinks, caught off-guard. “What?”
But you’re already turning on your heel to give him a proper response, instead only leaving him hanging with a, “Have a good rest of your day, Chan.”
He’s left standing there limply as you and Seungkwan slip your way through the door and back outside.
But then, a wide victorious smile crosses his face. It’s enough to fully recharge his energy and his heart.
The faint scent of weed and alcohol mixes in with the overwhelming smell of chlorine.
There’s this little staff-only after gathering at the waterpark. So far, it’s been nothing but gloriously chaotic𑁋a completely unregulated event where you and your fellow attendants, lifeguards, and store owners can cannonball off slides and utilise the waterpark attractions with zero supervision.
You expect Chan and Soonyoung to be here somewhere, but you haven’t seen either one of them at all this entire time. But to be fair, you have been sticking with Nayeon and a few other attendants in the lazy river for the past hour, floating down the stream on floaties with about three different brands of canned beers in your hands.
And honestly? You’re content. A little tipsy, damp, and relaxed in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
Fifteen minutes later, you𑁋and about fifteen other people𑁋are gathered in a circle in a wide picnic area near the cabanas. Beach towels, lounge chairs, and even floaties are all being used as makeshift seating. All of you are being obnoxiously loud, sharing various horror stories about the now closed waterpark with one another, and clearly very buzzed.
You’re currently sitting on your own beach towel, water dripping off your hair and body and onto the ground below. As you take another sip from your can, a sudden shadow looms above you.
“Hey, rookie.” The voice is immediately recognisable, and you look up to see him𑁋Chan, very much topless and sporting a pair of swimming trunks, a towel over his shoulder, and water glistening off his skin like he’s the epitome of a TikTok thirst trap that came to life. You take in the view for a second too long.
Your brain short-circuits for a moment. “Hey yourself.”
Chan drops down beside you on the towel, clicking open a can of beer for himself that he takes a long sip of before sitting it back down on the ground.
“You having fun?” he asks.
You chuckle lightly, nodding your head. “Yeah. Is this, like, a yearly thing or?”
“Sort of this team-bonding tradition that we have every year,” he affirms. “Helps us veterans get to know the newbies𑁋you know, like you𑁋a bit more. And a way to destress from this absolute shitstorm of a summer so far.”
Your fingers tap rhythmically against your can. “Hm, I don’t know. I’m starting to like this shitstorm of a summer.”
Chan turns to you, eyes beaming. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You meet his eyes momentarily, before shooting your gaze back down to your diamond-patterned towel and taking in a deep breath. “I’ve never enjoyed any of my other past jobs until this, you know. Thought I’d hate having to order kids around, but I guess seeing them scream their asses down a slide for eight hours straight is more appealing than you think.”
A laugh leaves Chan𑁋a full-on, unfiltered sound𑁋and it makes something inside you feel warm and fuzzy, and it’s definitely not entirely from the alcohol.
“Well, I’d say you’re quite a natural,” he says, playfully nudging you with his shoulder. “You ever think about… coming back next year?”
You have thought about it. After all, you did only apply for the summer position temporarily, because the pay is average and you’re getting closer to graduating with a degree that could hopefully land you in a full-time job. But you aren’t lying that the thought of leaving when the summer ends is a bit, well… disappointing.
Before you can answer his question, Soonyoung’s voice booms out from somewhere.
“Spin the bottle, truth or dare edition, losers! Everyone’s playing!”
A collection of groans and cheers leap into the air. You and Chan stand up to bring the towel closer to the circle, settling in between Nayeon and this other lifeguard named Vernon from the Wave Pool.
The bottle𑁋an empty, hastily-rinsed Sprite glass bottle𑁋sits in the very centre.
“Everyone should know the rules by now: spin the bottle, ask the person it lands on truth or dare, and if they don’t answer or do the dare then they take a shot,” Soonyoung explains enthusiastically, clasping his hands together like some sort of cartoon villain.
Soonyoung is the first to spin the bottle. He spins fast enough to have it roll off-centre. You watch as it slows to wobble, and you purse your lips together in anticipation at the odds of it landing on you, but it doesn’t.
It lands on Vernon.
“Alright, Wave Pool Prince.” Soonyoung turns towards Vernon with a mischievous grin. “Truth or dare?”
Vernon thinks for a moment, before casually answering, “Dare.”
“I dare you to call your ex and ask them on a date,” Soonyoung insists with confidence.
Vernon sighs, and you, Chan, and everyone else watches as he pulls out his phone, scrolls a few times, before bringing it up to his ear. You hear your other coworkers let out shouts and laughter of disbelief.
“Hey,” Vernon says into the phone, clearing his throat. “I was just calling to ask𑁋hypothetically𑁋if you wanted to go on a date with me?”
There’s a pause.
Then he nods. “Oh, cool. Yeah, uh… are you free this Monday?”
A collective gasp ripples through the air. Vernon puts down his phone and shrugs.
“She said sure.”
Soonyoung’s jaw drops to the floor. “What the hell? I wish my ex was as receptive as yours.”
It’s Vernon’s turn to spin the bottle, but he doesn’t spin it with much force. It only spins one entire lap around the circle before stopping right at Nayeon, literally just a hardly an inch from it landing on you.
“Shit,” she mutters, adjusting her bikini top like she was preparing to fight war.
Vernon chuckles lightly. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” Nayeon answers.
Vernon leans back on his palms, trying to think of a proper truth to ask. A curious, yet devilish look runs across his face.
“Is it true I saw you hooking up with that one dude who works at the bar in the breakroom last week?”
Nayeon’s eyes nearly bulge out of her skull, and you nearly choke on your drink. You see the way she attempts to keep a straight face, but the guilt at her lips is far too obvious𑁋even a little kid could see she was hiding something.
“Okay, fine. He was cute, okay?!” she declares in embarrassment. “And I was hella stressed!”
Vernon just raises his can of beer toward her. “Honestly, respect, dude.”
Nayeon grumbles something under her breath before defeatedly clinking her own glass against his.
A few more rounds pass by, the truths and dares getting more absurd by the second. Another lifeguard named Joshua was dared to go skinny dipping in the Lazy River, but lamely declined it with a shot. Soonyoung, ever the partygoer, chose dare on pretty much every single time the bottle landed on him, even accepting one to do a cannonball in the shallow bit of the pool𑁋which thankfully, he didn’t break anything.
It’s Soonyoung’s turn again to spin the bottle. He gives it one wild spin, and everyone watches as it whirls around the centre, sending leftover droplets of water flying off its sides. It clinks against the concrete underneath, twirling a few times around the group.
It slows, wobbles a few times, and finally…
…lands on Chan.
“Fucking finally!” Soonyoung whoops excitedly, using his entire body to turn to Chan. “Channie boy, truth or dare?”
Chan pauses. There’s two ways out of this: choose truth and take the easy way out by letting Soonyoung ask him something stupid, or take the dare and do something stupid. Neither option seems exactly appealing at all. It’s Soonyoung, after all.
For a second, he glances at you, sitting there and waiting patiently for him to answer, while the chant of the word dare floats tauntingly around him. He throws his head back with a groan, giving Soonyoung a challenging look.
“You already know what I’m going to pick.”
“Dare it is,” Soonyoung quips gleefully. “I dare you to kiss the prettiest person in the circle right now. On the lips.”
There’s an eruption of absurd laughter at the dare. Chan feels a lump that he struggles to swallow down his throat, his expression frozen with a mixture of you’ve got to be fucking with me right now and I’m going to kill you, Kwon Soonyoung.
He lets his instinctively gaze sweep around the circle, taking in everyone else’s expectant faces. But obviously, he doesn’t even need to consider anyone else in the circle𑁋there’s only one person, and one person only that he has in mind.
His eyes linger on you beside him a little longer.
You, sitting there with strands of wet hair stuck to your cheek. You, who came into Carat Bay with the grumpiness of an owl and wormed your way into his heart from the very first day that you met. You, who always left his boba shop flipping him yet still seemed to be the highlight of his day. You, who makes him feel like the dumbass protagonist in a summer flick.
You, who is also looking at him right at this damn moment, as if you already know what he’s thinking.
Chan leans in just a tiny bit, gaze flickering down to your lips and then back up to your eyes again. Your breath hitches at the imperceptible movement, as if maybe, just maybe, he was going to do it.
Perhaps it’s the alcohol buzzing through his veins, or the look you’re giving that’s encouraging him to shove down all his nerves and just do it. But instead, he leans back, letting out a short, awkward, breathless laugh. He reaches for the bottle of soju next to Vernon’s feet and swallows down a long swig.
It burns down his throat, and he allows the taste to distract him from the way your eyes are still on him.
“Ugh, lame!” Soonyoung wails disappointingly. “That could’ve been your moment, dude!”
Right next to him, you’re quiet. You don’t say anything. You can’t tell if what you’re feeling is relief, or disappointment. You give him a tiny nudge on the knees with your own, and he doesn’t look back up at you, though you can clearly see the tight-lipped smile on his face.
From then, the game continues. The bottle spins. The dares become more scandalous. But Chan feels like he’s watching it from somewhere far away.
“Get home safe, girl!” You hear Nayeon call back to you from where you’re packing up your belongings.
“See you tomorrow!” You holler back, watching as the girl’s figure retreats in the direction of the parking lot.
Everyone else has left at this point. The waterpark has grown completely quiet, except for the sounds of crickets chirping and the gentle gurgle of water in the nearby pools. Chan has also left, though you didn’t specifically see him leave. Disappointment crawls up your skin as you swing your bag over your shoulder and grab an extra can of beer for the hell of it before starting your way out of the waterpark.
You pass by the closed shops, stands, and attractions, knowing that you’re most likely leaving by the time summer ends, which is approaching way quicker than you needed it to be.
You pause in front of Chan’s shop, the sign stating Chan’s Bubble Bar looming above you. All the lights are off inside, and you hardly ever thought how peaceful this place must be at night. Or chaotic, rather𑁋it’s easy to imagine Chan and Soonyoung being the dumbasses they are closing the shop late and creating new experimental drinks for the menu.
You smile at the thought.
You’re halfway across the bridge that overlooks the Lazy River when at the corner of your eye, you spot some movement. Your footsteps come to a halt, and you squint down to see something𑁋specifically, someone𑁋floating atop the water.
There, drifting down the slow current of the Lazy River, is Chan. His arms are spread out like wings over the water, head tilted to stare up towards the night sky. Compared to all your interactions and countless moments of bickering, it’s oddly serene to see him there just… living.
You snort a little under your breath, amused, and wholeheartedly decide to screw it.
You dash your way down to the Lazy River, stopping at a point where he was slowly floating towards. He hasn’t noticed you yet.
“I can’t tell if you’re dead or just lost in thought.”
The sound of his voice quickly catches his attention, and he picks his head up to notice you standing there with your arms crossed, watching him with a small smile. Chan swiftly adjusts his position, his legs shooting under the water as he paddles himself to stay afloat.
“Didn’t peg you for a midnight swim kind of guy,” You say, dropping your bag down on the floor.
“Yeah? Well, the more you know,” he quips back playfully. “I thought you were already gone.”
“I was leaving until I saw this dumbass floating here by himself,” You admit teasingly. “Mind if I joined you?”
Chan opens his mouth to answer, having this urge to say no, but quickly shuts himself up as he watches you peel your shirt off and throw it to the side, revealing the same swimsuit you’ve had on since earlier. He averts his eyes hastily, feeling the current pick up just slightly as you ease yourself into the pool.
“Hey,” You greet him, making him spin his head back around just to freeze when he realises how close you’ve swam up to him.
He tenses, then relaxes. “Hey.”
The Lazy River continues carrying the two of you downstream. The silence is surprisingly comfortable𑁋just you, Chan, and the stars twinkling above. The water ripples softly around you, cool against your skin, but your chest is feeling otherwise. At one point, Chan picks his head up to gaze at you, seeing the way the moonlight reflects off the droplets on your skin, how peaceful you look just beside him.
This is really the first ever moment of quiet between you two.
“You know,” You start. “I really hated you at first.”
Chan chuckles at that. “I believe that’s everyone’s first impression of me.”
“Yeah. You and your annoyingly cocky ass.” A small laugh leaves you. “I thought you were so full of shit. I wanted to shove every word you said down your throat and probably smack you.”
“Ouch,” Chan mutters, cringing lightly. “Let me guess, you still want to smack me?”
You think long and hard for a few moments, before ultimately shaking your head, a smirk crossing your face.
“Honestly? You have the most smackable face on the planet,” You downright confess. “But, unfortunately… you’re too cute, so no. Well, maybe sometimes.”
The two of you exchange a fit of giggles at that. Chan feigns a scandalised look, pretending to be offended, but you don’t miss the way his ears flush pink. Even in moonlight, he still becomes shy when you flirt back to him. Underneath the water, your knees accidentally brush, but neither of you seem to mind.
“I’m not always this confident,” Chan adds in, his voice coming off more sheepish. “Yeah, being an absolute prick is fun, but sometimes I wonder if I do it just to cover my ass when I don’t know what to say.”
You turn to him curiously, allowing the current to drift you closer to him.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he rambles on, and you let him. “but yeah, I never once had a crush who liked me back in that way. I’ve always driven them away with how I act. It’s like… I don’t really know how to just be when I like someone.”
The raw honesty hits you hard. Because in what other universe does the annoying, prideful, overly territorial, pain in the ass Lee Chan confess something like this to someone? In what universe has anyone seen this vulnerable side of him? Sure, you two can bicker like puppies and drive each other to the edge with playful threats, but this?
This is the real him.
“I like you,” You admit quietly.
Chan’s brows raise. “What?”
“I like you, Chan,” You echo back, more confident and louder this time. “And maybe I do want to drown your dumbass sometimes, I still like you.”
There’s that befuddled look on his face again𑁋a face you’ve grown to adore. You visibly see the way he struggles to process your words, his brain clearly malfunctioning yet again, or like it always does when you say something genuine to him. The river curves slightly, pushing the two of you even closer together to the point where your shoulders are almost brushing.
“Oh,” is all that squeaks out of him. “That’s… cool. Great. Fantastic, even.”
You blink. “Is that seriously your response?”
“I𑁋no, I mean𑁋I like you too,” he stammers out, voice rising an octave as he waves his arms, causing a small splash. “Like, a lot. Probably since the day you called me a pain in the ass.”
It’s hard to suppress the way your mouth is twitching into a grin. “You’re so fucking lame, you know that?”
“Let a guy panic in front of his crush!” he exclaims shakily. “I’m in uncharted territory! I didn’t know you’d actually mean it.”
“Well, I did,” You say simply, tilting your head as you float next to him. “Even when you’re being a smug idiot. Even when you didn’t kiss me earlier. I still like you, Chan.”
Chan winces at the memory. “I just… I’m sorry.”
You find yourself floating directly in front of him, close enough he can feel your body heat radiating onto his. He stares at you𑁋really stares at you𑁋like he can’t believe what’s real and what’s not. The fact that you’re even here right now sends his heart into a complete overdrive. He swears he’s going to burst.
“Then fix it,” You insist lowly.
Chan’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Kiss me, Chan.”
A small, disbelieving laugh leaves him. And then without another word, he starts to lean in. This time, there’s no hesitation, no second-guessing.
You meet him halfway.
One of his hands drift down under the water to rest at your waist, the other coming to cup your face. Your own hands settle on top of his shoulders, holding onto him as your lips brush up against each other, allowing the current to drift you both. But you barely feel it. All you can feel is him.
The kiss itself isn’t cinematic, grand, or an explosion of fireworks. It’s warm, clumsy, and sweet all at once. He tastes faintly of the soju earlier and from summer heat, like laughter exchanged in nights under the stars and something else that is undeniably him𑁋summer heat, boba teas, and the endless teasing that follows him around. You melt shamelessly into it anyway, relishing how soft his lips are against yours and the jittery hands clutched onto you as if he still can’t believe that you’re real.
His nose accidentally bumps into yours, causing you to giggle into the kiss. The water continues to slosh around you as your hand comes up to cradle the nape of his neck, pulling him deeper into you. There’s a small hitch of his breath that leaves him at the touch, sending shivers up and down his spine.
When you finally pull apart your arm, Chan is absolutely gawking at you.
“Holy shit,” he says breathlessly. “Someone pinch me𑁋did that just happen?”
You roll your eyes, reaching down to pinch him lightly on his waist.
“Ow!” He flinches, shooting you a small glare. “I meant it metaphorically!”
“God, you’re such a loser,” You say with an all-too-fond expression.
His eyes flutter to a close as he feels the way your thumb is rubbing circles on the skin at the top of his shoulder. For a moment, the two of you just float there, with your foreheads pressed together and completely ignoring the way your limbs are basically turning into prunes for being in the water for God knows how long at this point.
Chan giggles sheepishly. “We’re going to be so royally screwed when we go back to tomorrow, you know that, right?”
You steal another quick kiss from his lips again, and he completely forgot what he just said two seconds before.
“Yeah, well…” You allow your head to rest on top of his shoulder, his arms slipping properly around you under the water. “At least we’ll be screwed together.”
he knows you’re not doing well with the distance, knows you’d rather have all of him or none of him than whatever this is. ⸻ ikaw mula noon anniversary series 🎵 sabay, never the strangers
word count: 1.6k · includes: angst, hurt/comfort, they are on a break!!!, actually so very sad and tender. owch
The weekend starts like a poorly worded Reddit post.
You know the type. The ones where there’s an obvious answer to the question being posed. The situations that have you sighing in exasperation, because you cannot fathom how somebody could ever get themselves into a bind like this.
AITA for still taking my ex-boyfriend to my sister’s wedding because I didn’t want to go back on our RSVP?
Vernon doesn’t like that—the term ‘ex-boyfriend’. Time and time again, he’s reminded you that it’s not a breakup. It’s a break. A cool off with a looming deadline, one where the two of you are supposed to reconvene and figure out if this is still something you want to figure out. Like a fucking merger.
He can call it whatever he wants, but it doesn’t take away the fact that his side of the bed feels colder with his absence, that the yoghurt you got him is well past its expiration date, that you find yourself waiting for him to come up in conversation just so you could say something.
Not anything bad, not any sort of passage of blame. God, no. You just want to be able to say something like That’s Vernon’s favorite or Vernon said something like that once. A thinly veiled reminder that you still know him, even if he no longer sends you dozens of TikToks in the middle of the night.
You still know Vernon. You know he’ll forget his antihistamines even though the wedding reception is a warzone for his allergies. You know he’ll ask for a mint at some point in the day, probably halfway through the mass. And so you bring your pocket First-Aid Kit, and you keep the tin of Mentos in your purse, because to love someone is to anticipate, to preempt, to know.
“I told you to bring a sweater.”
Vernon’s dry voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You shoot him a heatless glare, pulling his suit jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. The reception is in full swing—tuxedoed children hurtling in between the tables, tipsy aunties trading secrets behind cupped hands, fairy lights acting as dupes against the starless sky.
“And I told you,” you shoot back, “that it doesn’t fit in my purse.”
Vernon shifts in the seat beside you. He has a wry sort of smile on his face, because this is precisely the kind of petty argument you’ve had time and time again. It often ends with Vernon swaddling you in whatever hoodie he’d worn for the express purpose of loaning it to you later on.
“You’re going to freeze to death one of these days,” he jabs.
You want to say, Not when you’re around, but you bite the words back in favor of burrowing a little more into his coat. He doesn’t press, doesn’t comment on the flicker of an expression that passes over your face. Vernon had always been a better person than you when it came to things like this.
The reception unspools around the two of you like a film reel. Everything had been picture perfect today. The ceremony. The speeches. Your sister’s first dance with her now-husband.
Vernon played his part well. You hadn’t told your family yet that you were on a break. Hell, you thought this winter period would be over before the wedding. Vernon didn’t fault you when you had to sheepishly admit the truth to him. Just raised an eyebrow and asked if you knew where he could rent a suit.
He did everything expected of him. Kept a hand at the small of your back throughout the night. Smiled politely while fielding questions about marriage plans. Called you ‘babe’, looked at you like he still loved you.
He still loves you. He does.
That’s what he said, anyway, when he brought this whole arrangement up. He just—needed some time apart, needed space to breathe. To be.
Vernon nudges your side with his elbow. “I can hear you thinking,” he teases, though not unkindly.
Your lips purse in a tight smile. “What’s on my mind, then?”
He looks at you like he knows. Of course he knows. He knows you’re not doing well with the distance, knows you’d rather have all of him or none of him than whatever this is.
He spares you, though, and instead says, “You’re thinking about getting McDonald’s after this.”
A weak laugh escapes you. “A single black coffee,” you say.
“And absolutely nothing else,” Vernon adds. It’s an inside joke, one that needs no explanation.
You’re forgiven for not wanting to divulge to the rest of us. Some things are too intimate to be shared, to be said out loud and made real.
Like how a piano rendition of that song strikes up. You know the one. The track that reminds you of endless roads, of Friday evenings and Sunday mornings. It fills the spaces of your drives and reminds you of what it means to be alive.
You sit up a little straighter. Vernon notices.
“Your favorite,” he hums.
“Favorite is debatable.” Your response is more technical than anything. You don’t want to definitively call anything your favorite, not when there’s a whole world of choices for you to still make someday. You haven’t gotten to know all of the things that you could love yet.
Vernon rolls his eyes. And maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s that moment of something so familiar, so fond, that gives you just the right amount of courage to ask, “Dance with me?”
A beat. One that sits low, twists a bit, has damage in it.
The affection on Vernon’s face has crumpled into something closer to pity. You hate it. You want to hate him. He says your name all careful and quiet like, fracturing your heart that’s already cracked in all the places that matters.
“Nevermind,” you say. Too fast. Like you’re trying to get the words out before you can sob. “That was stupid. We—it’s not like we dance, anyway.”
Not in public, at least. The two of you waltz in kitchens during midnight, shimmy down empty grocery aisles, hold mini-concerts in shared showers. You’re both terrible at it, but at least you were terrible together. Now, you can’t even have that. Instead—
“Okay.”
Vernon’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s firm. Unwavering. The pity on his expression is gone, replaced by the certainty of a man who believes in certain truths.
You open your mouth to protest, to deny him of giving you this consolation prize. But the reality is that you’ll take what you can get. You take his hand as he holds it out to you. You double back to leave his suit jacket on the back of your chair. You wobble a bit as your heels hit the ground, and Vernon holds you steady.
Nobody bats an eye when you and Vernon hit the dance floor. Some of the other guests make room, even, shooting the two of you looks full of goodwill and well wishes. You can imagine what they’re thinking, what they’re wanting. For the next wedding to be yours.
You bury the thought behind the feeling of Vernon resting his hands at your waist. You wind your own arms around his shoulders, taking the excuse to press against him in the way that you’ve missed. You haven’t held him like this in what feels like weeks, and it’s a touch so comforting you think you could sob.
“Think you can keep up?” he jokes.
Despite yourself, you smile. “You know I will.”
You don’t.
You try. But you’ve got no sense of rhythm, and Vernon is twice as bad. You step over each other’s feet. He steers you into another couple; you lean a little too close and bump foreheads. The entire while, you try not to giggle, but when you hear the pffft of his own restrained laughter, you let the joy break from the back of your throat.
It crawls out, spills into the space between you, lightens the weight on both your shoulders. You aren’t somebody who declares favorites, but this—this has to be your favorite part of the night.
You keep flailing even when the song changes into one you don’t know. Even when it slows into something treacherous, something that demands heart. Your sister and her husband join the crowd of dancers; she throws you a wink, and you force yourself to smile as your hands tighten at the back of Vernon’s shirt.
“Do you want to sit back down?” he asks delicately.
No, you want to say. I want to dance with you forever. I’ll let you step on my toes and I’ll snap my ankles a thousand times over if it means having you here, with me.
Instead of saying all that, you throw the question back. “Do you?”
Vernon doesn’t miss a beat. “No,” he says, hands sliding down to your hips. “I like it here.”
Plain and simple. I like it here. Here, being this wedding. Here, being your arms. Here, being with you.
Here, as he pulls you to his chest and presses his lips to the top of your head, like he never left at all.
Vernon has never lied to you. And so you want to believe him. You have to believe him when he tells you this break is not something final. Not a period that ends things.
A comma, maybe,
for a story that will go on, and on, and on—
𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ⸻ i doubt i’m going to do this for all of the songs/fics, but this is one of my all-time favorite songs (for my very first svt bias), so i wanted to provide a translation for sabay. enjoy. ‹𝟹
I need some time
To breathe
In case I don’t reach you
And you’re gone before I get there
Even if our feet fall differently
I’ll still keep up with you
Dizzy from all this spinning
With no one to lean on
You’re the one who can stop
This body of mine
Even if our steps don’t match
I’ll still keep up with you
It doesn’t matter if we trip or go sideways
I’ll still keep up with you
It’s hard to stay above water
When the current sweeps you up
I can’t forget
Can’t get away from you
From you
Welcome to the high-stakes world of rival medial moguls, The Carat Company and Sebong Corporation. From HR nightmares to boardroom powerplays, the lights are on and the cameras are rolling; our writers are taking you behind the scenes of the industry’s fiercest (and pettiest) workplace battles. Talent Managers Tara (@diamonddaze01) and Kae (@studioeisa) are proud to present: That’s Showbiz, Baby!
[TAG LIST] ✨ Book a conference room now to get exclusive access to every deal closed, memo leaked, and steamy office romance as it drops.
[HR NOTICE] 🔞 Some files in this archive are strictly 18+ and may contain NSFW material. Please review 📊 Key Deliverables and 📝 Meeting minutes for individual content warnings before entering a conference room.
📺 THE CARAT COMPANY.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: routine romance
🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of talent recruiter!seungcheol and freelancer!reader.
📋 Agenda: you have a routine. a foolproof, tried and tested daily schedule. when the hell did choi seungcheol become part of it?
📊 Key Deliverables: humor, romance, pinch of angst.
📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food. slowburn -ish, meet ugly, coffee shop romance, feelings realization/denial, seungcheol is a flirty bastard, discussions of freelancing/corporate life.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: Touching Yourself
🤝 Booked by @straylightdream, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and f!reader.
📋 Agenda: After a stressful day on set leaves him wondering if being an actor is really what he wants, he calls you. One phone call leads to both you crossing lines you never imagined you would cross.
📊 Key Deliverables: smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, romance, comfort, angst.
📝 Meeting minutes: depression, anxiety, jeonghan is really going through it, severe stress from a job, alcohol consumption, crying, lots of emotions, mentions menstrual cycles.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: stars in the sky
🤝 Booked by @simpxxstan, on behalf of actor!jeonghan and reader.
📋 Agenda: yoon jeonghan has not a care in the world throughout the day - he’s the prince, it’s his time to reign. a million autographs every day, an unending echo of fanchants, and jeonghan knows he’s the most desired man in the country right now. but when the flashlights dim, the curtains are drawn, and the monsters step out of the dark, there’s only one hand he wants to hold. only one pair of eyes make his heart smile, only one voice lulls him into sleep every night, only one scent he desires to drown in, only one touch that lets him find himself again.
📊 Key Deliverables: co-workers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine trope, angst, smut, light fluff.
📝 Meeting minutes: smut warnings to be added later (mdni!), bickering and verbal banter, no private space, anxiety and panic attacks, online bullying, trolling, breakdown of self-confidence, nightmares, lots of angst really, casual flirting, more warnings to be added later.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Please, Block Me
🤝 Booked by @okiedokrie, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and reader.
📋 Agenda: Joshua Hong, 29, Social Media Manager. Forced to learn whatever meme lingo the kids are saying these days. Got harassed by the Social Media Manager of Queen Quesadilla when he used to work for King Taco; he quit. He works for The Carat Company now, where unfortunately, you followed.
📊 Key Deliverables: TBA.
📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: Typo and Error
🤝 Booked by @gotta-winwin, on behalf of social media manager!joshua and actress!reader.
📋 Agenda: Joshua loves his job as social media manager for The Carat Company, except for one thing: the actress he’s in charge of. you hate his guts, and Joshua swears he returns those feelings with vigor, and yet… forced to work in close proximity, Joshua’s forced to reckon with the idea that just maybe, despite all the animosity, he’s still madly in love with you.
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, crack, slight angst.
📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, mutual pining, oblivious idiots in love, enemies to lovers(?), heavy denial of feelings, discussions of fame/film industry.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: Too Far
🤝 Booked by @lovetaroandtaemin, on behalf of Intern!Jun and Secretary!Reader.
📋 Agenda: When your friend suggested letting the new intern in your company's legal department move in with you, you had your doubts. As time went on, though, the two of you grew closer than you ever could have anticipated. The only problem was that you were certain that he didn't see you the same way you saw him.
📊 Key Deliverables: Angst, Fluff, Smut. Roommates to lovers
📝 Meeting minutes: Jun is a loser with jealousy problems, profanity, LOTS of suggestive/NSFW content that Will Be Determined Later, both of these fuckers need to work on their communication skills.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: company benefits
🤝 Booked by @studioeisa, on behalf of social media intern!junhui and copywriter!reader.
📋 Agenda: you can't really call wen junhui your ex-boyfriend. it was more of a friends with benefits situation—except you only got ghosted, while he got an internship at your recommendation. people always say to not bite the hand that feeds you; it looks like jun didn't get the memo.
📊 Key Deliverables: smut, romance, angst with a happy ending.
📝 Meeting minutes: profanity, mentions of food & alcohol consumption, job loss. ex-situationship, forced proximity, so much tension..., nepotism!!!, marketing terms, soonyoung gets his own warning.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Be My Tigress?
🤝 Booked by @svtiddiess on behalf of Marketing Manager!Hoshi and Assistant Manager!Reader.
📋 Agenda: After moving halfway across the world to Korea, you landed a job as an Assistant Manager at Carat Company, a media company known for television production, music management, and digital content creation. Your boss, Soonyoung—though he insists everyone call him Hoshi—turned out to be an absolute whirlwind of chaos. From tiger-themed stationery and tiger-themed office décor to a full-on tiger fursuit, his relentless dedication to his so-called "tiger agenda" has left you questioning your sanity on more than one occasion. (Seriously, what even is a horanghae??) As you adjust to your new life and career, one question keeps nagging at you: how has he not been fired yet? No, really—why hasn't anyone reported this insane man to HR?
📊 Key Deliverables: crack, fluff, slightest of angst, smut, office romance.
📝 Meeting minutes: Tiger agenda is strong in this one, Hoshi is very unserious (and a diva), unrealistic workplace environment, multiple sex scenes, HR pls don't fire Hoshi.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 9: Beyond the Transcripts
🤝 Booked by @joonsytip, on behalf of CEO!wonwoo and Head of Legal!Reader.
📋 Agenda: Jeon Wonwoo, the calmest and untainted CEO to ever exist, gets his world shaken up when he finds you again, as the legal department head at his own company and your only registered family is a little guy who resembles him a bit too much. Alternatively, you are smooth in onboarding Wonwoo into your son's life but problems arise when he tries to slide back into yours.
📊 Key Deliverables: angst, smut, fluff, exes to co-parents to lovers.
📝 Meeting minutes: themes of co parenting, mentions of past difficult pregnancy, misogynistic slurs being used at workplace, minor accident.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 10: Prologue To ???
🤝 Booked by @chugging-antiseptic-dye, on behalf of HR Manager!Jihoon and Operations Manager!Reader.
📋 Agenda: You did not know HR manager Jihoon. You did not want to know HR manager Jihoon. However when fate throws you and an unconscious body to make his acquaintance, you realize that still water truly holds its depths. And maybe diving in head first was not the best decision. Yet, what else could you do? The show must go on.
📊 Key Deliverables: Horror, Murder Mystery, Paranormal, Psychological Thriller, Suspense, Urban, Angst, Hurt/Comfort.
📝 Meeting minutes: POV Switching, Amnesia, Blood, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Injury, Kidnapping, Morally Grey Characters, Mentions of Death/ Murder, Body Horror, Descriptions of Injury, Nightmares, Substance Abuse, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Coworkers to maybe lovers, Ambiguous Open Ending.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 11: Emails I Can't Send
🤝 Booked by @diamonddaze01, on behalf of Managing Director of HR! Jihoon and Planning and Recruitment Specialist! Reader.
📋 Agenda: Jihoon has always been clear: work is work, and co-workers are co-workers. Boundaries keep things clean. Professional. Predictable. As Managing Director of HR at The Carat Company, that's exactly how he likes it. But when a too-charming, too-bright former Sebong Corp employee joins his team, Jihoon is forced to confront the one boundary he may no longer be able to hold: the one between you and him.
📊 Key Deliverables: humor, fluff, angst with a happy ending.
📝 Meeting minutes: epistolary, suggestive for sure, consumption of alcohol.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
📺 SEBONG CORPORATION.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 1: An Alluring Score
🤝 Booked by @seoloquent, on behalf of Artists and Repertoire Representative!DK and Conductor!Reader.
📋 Agenda: Willing to risk everything, his career included, Seokmin knew you had to be the one in charge of Sebong Corp’s newest feature film’s score soundtrack. The only issue was, you had no physical proof of experience. Despite the doubts coming from executives, your family, and even yourself, Seokmin resolved to help you prove everyone wrong, and showcase your alluring score to the world.
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, humor, slight angst, strangers to lovers.
📝 Meeting minutes: seokmin has a slight issue with boundaries (could be a little annoying), depictions of misogyny, grief, mentions of death (not important character), inaccurate representation of film industry (I did as much research as I could!).
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 2: LoserBoy vs. HaterGirl
🤝 Booked by @gyubakeries, on behalf of Social Media Intern!Mingyu and IT Specialist!Reader.
📋 Agenda: When Kim Mingyu, the new addition to the Social Media department of Sebong Corp. shows up at your office, requesting you to feature in one of the 'promotional tiktoks' he's been assigned to film, you tell yourself that it'll be your last interaction with the puppy-faced, hyper-energetic intern. A few months, twenty tiktoks, and a diabetes-inducing amount of sugar, you can't quite remember exactly why you had wanted to stay away from him in the first place.
📊 Key Deliverables: comedy, romance, light angst, one-sided enemies to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, pining, a dash of slowburn.
📝 Meeting minutes: sexual content, mingyu being a teensy bit annoying, a lot of obliviousness.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 3: HR Meets Heart
🤝 Booked by @soo0hee, on behalf of HR Manager!Minghao and afab!reader.
📋 Agenda: When you didn't get the promotion you were licking your fingers for, you weren't at all amused. When it was the one person you were sure was out for your every last nerve to get said promotion, you were even less amused. Now stuck with a new boss you loathed you were sure you'd go insane — but what if it's in a different way then you thought....
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, enemies to lovers.
📝 Meeting minutes: suggestive, language, alcohol.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 4: Mr. Boo: Coffee, Campaigns, and Confessions
🤝 Booked by @smiley-pansy, on behalf of Marketing Manager!Seungkwan and Brand & Promotions Coordinator!Reader.
📋 Agenda: You and Seungkwan work behind the scenes at Sebong Corporation, a bustling movie production company. When you're assigned to co-lead the marketing campaign for Eclipse Rising—the studio’s most high-profile release yet—your already-close working relationship takes center stage. Through morning coffee runs, chaotic brainstorming sessions, late-night strategy meetings, and a surprisingly sweet team-building retreat, your friendship deepens into something more.
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, slight crack, coworkers-to-lovers, (attempt at) comedy.
📝 Meeting minutes: light swearing, adorable idiots in love.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 5: damage control
🤝 Booked by @heechwe, on behalf of and actor!vernon and reader.
📋 Agenda: Hansol Vernon Chwe is one of the most frustrating clients to have on the payroll yet one of the biggest and brightest stars on cable television. He's reckless, carefree, and always dancing to the beat of his own drum. And it is up to you, his new assistant, to hold onto the reigns in time for the press run and upcoming premiere of his hit show's second season. No matter what it takes, or how hard you fall for him in the process.
📊 Key Deliverables: TBA.
📝 Meeting minutes: TBA.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 6: homemade dynamite
🤝 Booked by @miniseokminnies, on behalf of actor!vernon and fem!director!reader.
📋 Agenda: Vernon Chwe is a serious actor. That’s how his company, Sebong Corporation, markets him at least. He couldn’t be less interested in that strategy, he’d much rather focus on projects that inspire him. When an email from you, an indie film director that’s been on his radar, comes through his inbox he practically jumps at the opportunity. Trust him on this, okay? It’ll turn out amazing, he’ll make sure of it.
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, smut, strangers to co workers to lovers.
📝 Meeting minutes: Vernon causing problems for his boss, deeply inappropriate use of a lake, semi public sex, angst if you squint, feelings of being lost.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 8: Entertaining Pleasures
🤝 Booked by @bitchlessdino, on behalf of Entertainment CEO!Chan and afab!TV Producer!Reader.
📋 Agenda: Chan didn't think he had what it takes and motivation to be a CEO when he rather be the one on stage. It wasn't until he met the most obnoxious TV producer he's ever met that he was committed to being the best goddamn Entertainment CEO they and Carat Company has ever seen.
📊 Key Deliverables: fluff, comedy, smut, enemies to fwbs, fwb to ???
📝 Meeting minutes: cocky!chan, undermining!reader, poor use of filming/modeling sets and their equipment, lowkey exhibitionism.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
🗓️ CONFERENCE ROOM 7: On Your Side
🤝 Booked by @chanranghaeys, on behalf of ceo!lee chan and cfo!fem!reader.
📋 Agenda: Being seatmates with Chan for your senior year back in arts high school changed your life forever. Being estranged and distant friends with Dino, celebrated idol-slash-actor, messed with your head—and your heart. Being the Chief Financial Officer and right hand of Sebong Corporation’s newest CEO, Mr. Lee Chan turned you both into people that barely knew each other. But would you both be willing to stick it through to the end, claiming to be on each other’s side?
📊 Key Deliverables: high school friends to estranged friends to office colleagues to enemies to ???
📝 Meeting minutes: puppy love and high school crushes, borderline office romance, mutual pining but they’re adamant to antagonize each other.
Read the teaser here.
Read the full fic here.
Once again, sign up for the tag list to get tagged for teasers and fic drops. See you in office!
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