-> You don't like Han Jisung's girlfriend. He needs a new one.
nerd!jisung x fem!reader
strangers to friends to lovers, slow burn, fluff, angst, hurt / comfort, college!au, suggestive
3.7K
warnings: cursing, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mentions of cheating, reader is an unreliable narrator
Inspired by Girlfriend by Avril Lavigne
series mlist
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You can't say you know another underrated hottie that fits the bill quite like Han Jisung. There's just one teeny tiny detail that stands in your way.
Her name is Girlfriend, and she's your biggest obstacle.
Well, to be more precise: Jisung's loyalty to his girlfriend is your biggest obstacle.
If he were like every other frat boy on campus, you would have him by now. He would’ve flirted back, folded under temptation, dumped his girlfriend the second you offered him something new.
But Jisung isn’t built like every other frat boy on campus. He isn't the type to dismiss his commitments so easily.
And wouldn't you know it? That's the exact reason you’re so attracted to him in the first place.
It all started the day you made the very reasonable decision that Han Jisung should be yours. The turning point? The moment you realized his girlfriend sucks, and that he seriously deserves a new one. A better one.
You.
You've spent a total of one night talking and dancing with Jisung, and that's all it took to earn your highest respect.
There’s something about his good guy character that’s maddeningly attractive. Not in the corny, try-hard way some guys put on for show, but in the sincere way he carries himself.
The way he kept an arm around you on the dance floor, not to stake a claim, but to protect. The way he kept you close without caging you in, gave you space to breathe and move without letting anyone else ruin your moment.
For the first time in a long time, you felt completely safe with a guy. Not watched, not objectified. Just…safe. Like someone actually had your best interest in mind for once.
And talking to him? God, it was so easy. He wasn’t just waiting for you to say the right thing, or perform the right version of yourself. You didn’t have to play cool or cute or hard to get. You were just…there. And he was there too, without judgment, without pretense.
But beneath all of that warmth and comfort, under all his sweetness and soft smiles – there’s a flicker of something darker. A tiny, dangerous thought tucked into the corner of your mind that will no doubt get you in serious trouble if anyone finds it.
Even more than you want his hands on you, more than you want his lips or his body or that dangerous thrill of imagining him completely undone…
Because as good and honest and respectful and safe as he is, there’s a part of you that wonders what he’d be like if he wasn’t so composed. If all that nerdy good boy energy suddenly broke. Would he beg? Messy and breathless? Greedy and ruined? Desperate for a single chance to be touched by you?
You want his respect.
It’s strange and unfamiliar, this sharp ache in your chest. Why are you so concerned with what he must think of you?
Because with every other guy, it’s always been about being wanted. Needed. Touched. Used. They’d grab your hips like you owed them something, or whisper half-assed compliments right before trying to get their hands down your jeans. You learned how to take that and twist it into something akin to worth, convinced yourself those scraps of respect are enough.
But with Jisung…it’s different.
You want him to look at you and see something valuable. Smart. Kind. Funny. Worthy of being known, not just touched. You want him to remember the way he laughed when you first met, how he tilted his head and called you weird with that fondness in his voice like he actually liked you for you.
It’s the first time in a long time (maybe ever) that you want a guy to care about what’s behind your eyes before he cares about what’s between your legs.
And it terrifies you. But it also makes you want him all the more.
Unfortunately, that's all just wishful thinking. Jisung thinks his girlfriend is the nicest, sweetest girl on campus. Why else would he be dating her?
As much as you believe he needs a new girlfriend, you doubt he would listen to you.
Unless….
Unless, you had proof.
::
You’re crouched low, peeking around the corner of a brick wall, camera app open and ready. Girlfriend is perched on a bench just a little ways away, smiling down at her phone like she’s in a romcom montage.
“What are you doing?”
You narrow your eyes. Probably sexting. Probably lining up her next victim.
You’re seconds away from snapping a photo when--
You whip around, barely managing not to yelp, only to find Jisung leaning over you with his hand pressed casually against the wall above your shoulder like he's trapped you there on purpose. Which he hasn’t (probably). But your heart doesn’t know that; it kicks up a notch anyway.
“I-- uh, nothing,” you sputter, scrambling upright, nearly colliding with his chest.
His brow arches, eyes dancing from your face to your phone. “Nothing? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re spying on my girlfriend.”
You force out a laugh, way too high-pitched. “Spying? Please. Do I look like the type to lurk around corners?”
“Yes."
"Rude."
"You do realize I just caught you crouching behind a wall, right?"
"Okay, wow, somebody's a critic." You glance around as if only just noticing your position before standing up straighter. "Doesn't mean I was spying."
You slowly tap your fingers together, lips curling into a shy smile, voice suddenly far too pleased, “You noticed what I was wearing all week?”
“You’ve been walking around campus in giant sunglasses and a black trench coat all week,” he says, gesturing from your head to your feet as if personally offended. “Indoors. At night.”
Jisung visibly falters, ears turning pink beneath his messy hair. “Yeah, because you looked suspicious."
"Mhm."
“Not because I was paying attention to you or anything.”
"If that's what you need to tell yourself."
"I wasn't looking for you."
"You missed me."
“What? No, that’s not--” he pushes his glasses higher up his nose way too fast, nearly fumbling them in the process. “That’s literally not what I said.”
“I don't know," you sing, swaying from side to side. "Sounds an awful lot like you missed me."
Instead of answering, he just groans quietly, dragging a hand down his face while his ears somehow turn even redder. “Why are you like this?”
You lean a little closer, close enough to whisper, “Because watching you get flustered is one of my favorite hobbies now.”
"And you have to do that while stalking my girlfriend?"
“I’m not stalking anyone.”
“Then why are you taking pictures of her?” The teasing edge in his voice fades when he says it. He's not angry, exactly, but definitely protective.
His shoulders straighten, expression tightening just enough to make it clear this isn’t a joke to him as much as he banters with you.
And annoyingly enough, it's attractive. Like, goddamn. He’s defensive over her, and you can only assume it's because he cares that deeply in the first place. Jisung is the kind of guy who notices when someone might be uncomfortable and immediately steps in front of it. The same way he did on the dance floor. The same way he’s standing in front of you now, except he's defending the wrong girl.
His eyes flick briefly toward the bench where his girlfriend sits giggling at her phone before landing back on you, soft and kind, but wary.
“Look, you’re kinda freaking her out, and Minji said she noticed you–”
“Don’t say that cheating bastard’s name in front of me,” you interrupt dramatically, waving your hand like you’re warding off a demon.
“Cheating…?” His brows shoot up so fast they practically disappear into his messy bangs. “Hold on, are you stalking my girlfriend to catch her cheating on me?”
“No,” you snap immediately. “I just said I'm not stalking her. Are you even listening to me?”
Jisung crosses his arms, leaning against the wall beside you while his bicep rudely bulges against the brick. “You just called her a cheating bastard with a conviction I haven't seen since Catholic middle school.”
“Because she is one.”
“You don’t even know our relationship.”
“I know her.” The words come out sharper than you intended.
That catches his attention. Any leftover teasing or fondness slips from his face, replaced with a cautious curiosity. “What does that mean?”
You hesitate.
“She and I used to run in the same circles,” you admit, trying to not look away from those wide, boba pearls he calls eyes. “And trust me, she's...not innocent."
Jisung’s jaw tightens slightly. “Yeah, I know she has a past.”
“A past?” you echo incredulously. “Jisung, that girl used to go through men like free samples at Costco. Trust me, I was there.”
“Can you not talk about her like that?”
“Oh, come on. You can't seriously be this naive.”
“And you can’t seriously think people are incapable of changing.”
You push off the wall with a scoff, pointing in Girlfriend’s direction accusingly. “People like her don’t just magically wake up one day with morals.”
“Minji has been trying really hard, okay?” Whoa. His voice changed just now, in a way that makes it clear you’ve crossed into dangerous territory. “Since before we started dating. And not that it's any of your business, but she's shown me I can trust her.”
“But–”
You almost tell him then. It's right there on the tip of your tongue. Seeing Minji sneaking into your ex’s dorm two months ago wearing that same tiny silver miniskirt she used to wear to frat parties every other weekend.
But the words stick in your throat. There's no way he's going to believe you right now anyway. He’ll probably think you’re lying because you want him for yourself. Which...okay. Valid. You do. But that's beside the point.
You sigh instead, “Look, I just don’t want you to get screwed over. Or hurt."
Jisung studies you carefully. “Why do you care so much?”
The obvious answer: because I like you.
But you're not looking to embarrass yourself and all your future descendants today.
So instead, you shrug and shyly tucking your phone into your trenchcoat pocket, followed by your hands.
“Because you were nice to me at the party. And I don't respect most men, but...I respect you.”
That makes him smile a little despite himself. “Well,” he says gently, “thank you. But if you respect me, then you’ll respect my girlfriend.”
Actually, that's not at all how that works. But you’re forced to show a small, flat smile, even as jealousy twists hot in your chest.
“Fine,” you mutter, though the word tastes like a bitter lie. Girlfriend hasn’t earned your respect, and she never will.
He glances at his phone. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Umm, your girlfriend is that way,” you point out, nodding toward the bench, the opposite direction Jisung turns.
“I know.” He adjusts the bag on his shoulder. “I’m headed to the computer lab.”
Your brow furrows. “The computer lab? But you don’t have a test this week. Not that I would know that."
He chuckles, a little sheepish, a little humorous. “Haven’t been able to play League all week. Figured I’d take my chance while Minji’s distracted.”
“She doesn’t let you play League of Legends?”
“She doesn’t really get the seriousness of it,” he admits nonchalantly.
Translation: she thinks it's stupid.
“But she lets you play it, right?"
“Just, if she asks, tell her I'm studying, okay?”
Before you can argue, he lifts a hand in a quick wave and leaves.
You watch him jog away, stupidly cute, stupidly attractive, stupidly happy for someone defending a girlfriend who seemingly doesn’t even let him enjoy his hobbies.
And all you can think is: how solid of a girlfriend can she really be that someone as genuine and good as Jisung would be defending her so adamantly?
Nah, this bitch is hiding something. And you're gonna uncover it if it's the last thing you do.
::
Your ex-boyfriend is about the farthest thing from a nerd that a man can get--
(Wait, sorry. Let's rephrase that, because he's not a man. Not by a long shot.)
Your ex-boyfriend is about the farthest thing from a nerd that a total shitbag can get.
(Yeah, that's better.)
You dated him for about six months before realizing you were tired of being treated like property that existed only for one bed and one pair of hands.
At first, he made you feel wanted. Cherished, even. He’d pull you into his lap like you were precious, kiss you like he actually meant it, look at you in ways that somehow convinced you he was capable of honesty.
But slowly, those feelings began to rot.
Texts stopped being intentional unless they led somewhere physical. Compliments became predictable. Conversations got shorter and less interesting. His attention was only fully locked onto you when he wanted something.
And sure, you were used to feeling appreciated only in pieces instead of as a whole person by other guys. But he was supposed to be different. He was your boyfriend. The person who’s supposed to make you feel safe when the rest of the world makes you feel small. Supposed to spoil you, support you, value you.
Not sit in a group chat with his shitbag friends gossiping about their girlfriends’ bedroom habits like they’re reviewing products online.
Even you have more class than to treat intimacy like entertainment for an audience. It's called common courtesy.
And yet, you stuck by him. For much longer than you probably should have. It wasn't until after you found out he had a side piece that you accepted he didn’t actually see you as special. Just available.
You broke up with him a few days later.
And then the little fuck nugget had the audacity to act confused as if the breakup came out of nowhere. Like he hadn't spent the last several months slowly turning your relationship into a glorified situationship with anniversary dates which he never celebrated.
Saying things like, “You knew what I was like before you started dating me. I don't get why you're so upset. I just did what everybody else does."
You haven't spoken since. Haven't really seen him either, aside from the time you saw Minji (yuck) sneaking through his dorm room window at butt crack o'clock in the morning.
Ah yes. You almost forgot why you're hovering outside the campus gym in the middle of the hottest part of the day. Minji is on the dance team and has practice today. So she'll be walking out soon. The perfect chance to "coincidentally" run into her for a short interrogation conversation.
Okay, perhaps Jisung had a point with the whole stalking thing, but it's all for the greater good.
Unfortunately, when you turn around, you see the last person you expected to see walking straight towards you.
“___?” His voice hits your ears like nails against concrete. “What are you doing here?”
Oh, yeah.
You forgot your ex practically lives at the campus gym. Which, honestly, explains a lot about how he met Minji in the first place. Species in their natural habitat and all that.
You, meanwhile, have absolutely no business being anywhere near athletic equipment, given your personal fitness routine mostly consists of dodging emotional vulnerability and running from your problems.
Annoyingly enough, he looks…good.
Which is deeply offensive.
He’s lost some weight since the breakup, enough to sharpen his jawline, and his new haircut actually suits him stupidly well. It says, ‘I started using expensive shampoo, so I’m emotionally evolved now.’
Loser.
“None of your business, Jae,” you reply, immediately defensive.
His eyes drag over you with open confusion. “Relax, damn. I was just surprised to see you voluntarily within fifty feet of a treadmill.”
“And I'm surprised you think I give a fuck what you have to say.”
That wipes the sultry smirk off his face for a second.
Jae folds his arms across his chest, tank top stretching over muscle you absolutely refuse to acknowledge. “Still doing that, huh?”
“Doing what?”
“Acting like I’m the asshole because your feelings got hurt.”
You bark out a dry laugh. “My feelings got hurt because you acted like an asshole.”
“No,” he says bluntly. “You got upset because I treated you the same way everybody else does.”
Your jaw tightens and you angle your body away. “Shut up. You're being a jerk."
“Aha! There it is,” he declares, pointing at your face like he’s proven something. "That right there."
"What?"
"You acting like you’re okay with people treating you casually, but then getting upset when people actually do."
You stare at him in disbelief. “Wow. Therapy must be going great for you.”
“Actually, it is. You should try it sometime. Maybe it'll help with the bitch tendencies.”
Your laugh comes out sharp and humorless, a sigh of faux relief paired with a mocking slow clap. “A round of applause, ladies and gentlemen. I was wondering how long the fake personal growth thing would last.”
“See?” he deadpans. “That’s exactly what I mean. The second someone calls you out, you have to make it into a fight.”
“No,” you shoot back, “I just stopped pretending your behavior is charming. Sorry if that bruised your little ego, but we can't all afford to be toxic.”
“Whoa, back up, ___. You walk around acting like sex is no big deal and guys can use your body and you don’t care. But then suddenly when I do it, I’m toxic?”
“I was your girlfriend!”
“And?”
That one word lands like a slap across your face. Your chest sinks so fast it steals your breath.
Because there it is. The real issue. Not the group chat. Not the disrespect. Not even the cheating.
To him – girlfriend or hookup – it never actually mattered to him what you were. He never cared.
You swallow hard, forcing your expression flat before he can see how deep that one cut.
Jae scoffs, looking away for a second before dragging his hand through his hair. “You know what? Forget it. I don't have to deal with this. You dumped me. You got what you wanted, and I'm over it.”
Something bitter twists in your stomach at how casually he speaks about it. Like the relationship had been some exhausting inconvenience for him. Like he was relieved when you ended things because it meant he didn’t have to keep pretending to care anymore.
(Not that he had been trying very hard in the first place.)
“Yeah!?” you yell after him before you can stop yourself. “Well, me too!”
He doesn’t turn around.
“And thank god I broke up with you!” you yell louder, voice echoing across the sidewalk now. “Best decision I ever made!”
Facts! That jerk doesn’t deserve another second of your mental energy, let alone the amount of emotional space you've allowed him to occupy. In your opinion, he’s a liar, a scumbag, and an emotionally constipated bonehead. An absolute bottom tier man.
Why should you care that he doesn’t care?
You don’t. Obviously.
You’re over it. Completely moved on. Stronger heart. Stronger mind. Stronger body.
At least, that’s what you tell yourself while aggressively speed-walking across campus.
Honestly, he should’ve been grateful for the chance to date you in the first place. Instead, he took everything you gave him for granted -- the trust, the attention, the respect you handed over so easily just because he carried the title of boyfriend.
Stupid.
That’s the last time you ever let yourself fall for a guy first. From now on, men can fall at your feet like nature intended.
“Oof—!”
Strong hands catch you by your arms before you manage to lose all your balance and end up on the ground. Familiar hands with rough little calluses along the fingertips and the sides of his palms.
“Oh,” Jisung says softly when he recognizes it's you, “hey, ___.”
You blink up at him from where you've crashed into his chest, momentarily distracted by the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose and how warm he feels through his hoodie. He looks unfairly cozy today. Which is deeply inconvenient right now considering it would be socially unacceptable for you to climb inside his hoodie with him.
“Sorry,” you mutter automatically, trying to step around him.
But he doesn't let you go just yet.
Instead, his expression changes the moment he gets a good look at your face.
“Are you crying?”
You freeze.
Your hand gently comes to your cheek, fingertips brushing damp skin.
"Oh. Look at that. Funny." You wipe at your face with the back of your hand, turning your head away with a sniffle. “I’m fine."
Jisung gives you a look. Not judgmental, but definitely not amused.
“It’s nothing,” you mumble, rubbing under your eyes harder than necessary. “My eyes are just watering because I'm allergic to this stupid campus.”
Jisung’s mouth twitches faintly. He knows that’s complete bullshit, how could he not? But he lets you have it anyway, and you're thankful for his empathy in this moment.
His hands loosen around your arms slowly, fingers dragging down your sleeves as he lets go. The friction sends a small, unexpected shiver up your spine.
Maybe it's because you just ran into your ex or maybe it's because you're feeling particularly vulnerable right now, but your body has decided now is the perfect time to become hyperaware of him.
He slides his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie, shoulders hunching slightly, and for one deeply humiliating second, your brain offers up the image of shoving your own hands in there too. Warm fingers tangled together, standing too close, his lips on your forehead–
Oh, no. You better shut that thought down violently. Abso-freaking-lutely not. Even if he is in a relationship with the devil herself and even if you are actively trying to expose her, you can't let yourself follow that path.
Jisung, blissfully unaware of your psychological warfare, pulls one hand back out to check his phone, his brows knitting together at whatever notification pops up on the screen.
“Well,” he says after a moment, putting his phone away again, “I was actually on my way to get food with Minji, but she just cancelled on me.” Something ugly twists in your gut at the mention of her name, but before you can mask it, he adds, “Would...you want to...?"
You stare at him. “Huh?”
"Go get some food? Together?"
There's no pity in his eyes. No weird tension, no awkward tone. For a second, it seems as though he genuinely wants your company. Which somehow makes your tears return full force.
You clear them away quickly. “You’re asking the girl who's stalking your girlfriend to go get food?”
A small smile pulls at his lips. “Technically, you’re retired now, right?”
Despite yourself, a weak laugh escapes you. And damn him for it, because it feels kinda nice to laugh at something a guy said for the first time in god knows how long.
“Are you sure your girlfriend won't mind?”
He pulls out his phone, sends a quick text, waits a moment for a reply, and then offers you a sure smile.
“She's good.”
“Okay,” you sigh dramatically. “But not somewhere healthy. I need something fried.”
Despite how often Y/N pushed him away, Chris never held it against her. Even if it hurt him more than he wanted to admit sometimes, he knew the only way to get her to trust him completely after years of being mistreated by other people was to gently coax her out of her shell and know when to let her come to him, or when it was his place to go to her. He loved her too much to rush the fragile process; he would gladly wait for as long as it took if it meant she'd be fully his when it came to emotions, the way he was already full hers.
After a week of one word answers and closed up expressions, Y/N now stood in the doorway of his bedroom. Jeongin must have let her in. Pushing down the headphones from his head upon seeing the sliver of golden light from the hallway spill into his dark room, Chris turned in his chair and took in the sight of her. Her eyes were wild and full of unconcealed emotion, her fingers curled into trembling fists by her thighs, and her cheeks were blotchy as if she had been crying and her tears had dried unevenly on her skin. Her lips formed a subtle pout as if she was trying not to cry again, her chin dimpled.
She looked wretched, to say the least. But the way she was looking at him in the shadows of his room was nothing short of vulnerable and completely open, and Chris's heart split clean down the middle at her appearance.
Wordlessly, Chris held his arms out to her from across the room. She stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, bar the erratic rise and fall of her chest, the sound of her quiet breaths the only sound in the room. The yearning reflected in the depths of her gaze robbed Chris of his breath. She looked as though she wanted nothing more than to surrender and fall into his arms, yet something inside of her kept pulling her back, like a leash, keeping her from moving.
Chris waited, his arms outstretched. His triceps began to burn from keeping them there, but he didn't dare to drop them. He had a feeling she might close off again if he gave up on his offer to hold her.
Sure enough, like a cautious cat, Y/N unfroze. She stumbled across the room towards him, and with a sniffle she let Chris pull her into his arms so she was straddling his lap. One of his arms locked around her waist before she could change her mind and move away again, and his other hand gently cradled the back of her head as he led it to the safe junction beneath his chin, tucking her carefully into the relaxed curve of his body.
Her entire body shook in his embrace, her breaths broken to Chris's ears. She clutched feebly at the warm material of his t-shirt that fell over his sides, and he pulled her even closer, squeezing her as tight as he could without hurting her. His hands moved constantly over her body in tender strokes; one hand rubbing slowly circles over her back, the one card through her hair and kissing her scalp. His chin rested on top of her head, his eyes falling shut with emotion as he felt her slowly melt in his arms.
With his heartbeat gentle beneath her cheek, Y/N's breathing began to even out. Her shaking subsided and the tiny broken whimpers that kept slipping out of her halted too. Chris's warmth flooded in through her oversized top and seeped into her chilled skin, heating her internal system and soothing her fractured state. His scent was deep and sweet and so familiar that for a moment, wrapped up in his arms, her mind grew quiet. She didn't have the energy to push him away or to rebuild the strong walls of independence and pride around her again. His hold on her was far too comforting, far too right in that moment for her to revert back into the isolated state she usually clung so desperately to.
When her arms stopped feeling like jelly, Y/N lifted them slowly and looped them around Chris's neck. She buried her face into his shoulder and inhaled more of his scent as his own grip tightened around her waist and tugged her closer on his thighs until she was pressed flush against his front. His fingertips were delicate as they continued to caress her scalp, and his plush lips found their way to her temple, pressing slow, lingering kisses across the area. Each one left a tingly, heated sensation behind, and Y/N exhaled slowly with each one.
Her eyes prickled at how gentle he was being with her. She knew she wasn't very good at letting herself be taken care of, even though it was all she had ever craved. Her own personal issues were rooted far too deep inside of her, and she struggled to trust anyone who came into her life. Her unwillingness to open up often pushed away anyone who tried to befriend her after a few weeks; people didn’t care enough to try and peep back the layers wrapped around her. Yet here was Chris, treating her like she actually mattered. He had immediately stopped working to give her his full attention and care. He didn't care about her insecurities, or the way she tried to pull away from him as hard as she could. If anything, it just made him love her more, and made him want to show her what proper care felt like.
It was a foreign feeling. It made her sniffle again into the crook of his neck, and he instinctively squeezed her into him, his hand starting to pat her head.
Neither of them spoke. But a thousand silent words floated around them both, conveying each one of their complicated feelings to the other.
Chris kept kissing the top of her head, delivering soft butterfly pecks that filled Y/N's body with a growing calm, and a warmth that she could feel all the way down to her toes. The rigid set to her body had melted completely now, and she was like a pliable putty moulded into his body, half laying on top of him in his big revolving chair. His hand travelled from her back down to her waist, and then to her thigh, his palm sweeping up and down in soothing strokes.
When she finally looked up after what felt like hours, Chris was already looking down at her. His eyes were tender, sparkling under the pointed glow of his laptop and decorative lights on the wall. The delicate skin at the very corners of his eyes crinkled with a loving smile, and Y/N's face broke into a watery smile of her own. Lips parting as Chris chuckled quietly at her expression, he cupped the back of her head and brought her close so he could kiss her forehead.
His fingers brushed the hair away from her face, each touch dripping with a reverence that made her heart flutter. Y/N kept looking up at him, her face flushing with shyness, and Chris grinned at her, his touch lingering on the back of her neck as his thumb caressed the skin there. Unable to take the intensity of his gaze, Y/N dropped her face back into his chest, huddling close to him, and she scrunched her eyes shut in soft joy as he hugged her back, enveloping her in arms that she knew wouldn't let go.
⤷ part of the weight of love: eight ways to STAY series
[ ▸ ] — you and minho have spent years loving your son from separate homes, pretending the distance between you stopped hurting a long time ago. he has always loved quietly, and you have always needed something louder. but when jiho begins a school project about family, the life you thought minho let go of starts finding its way back to you.
[ ✐ ] — 12k
[ ⌗ ] — architect!minho x interior designer!reader coparenting slow burn angst hurt / comfort second chances graphic & detailed smut oral ( f receiving )
[ ✉︎ ] — cannot believe we are 7/8 done with with this series! ahhh! also loved how i got to watch the kNOw way while editing this <3 changbin's part will be a little tricky to post so i'll let you guys know how/when that will posted later. a wet hot skz summer is coming too guys! joy and i are so excited for you guys to read everything we've been cooking for the past three months! anyways, as always hunnies, enjoy, and please—if you do, like, reblog, and comment <3 love to see you guys' thoughts and feedback!
You have learned, over the years, that there are different kinds of quiet.
There is the quiet of an unfinished house before the flooring goes in, when every room carries the hollow echo of possibility and dust hangs in the air, waiting to settle. There is the quiet of an office after midnight, when your monitor glows over half-finished renders and your coffee has gone cold beside the keyboard. There is the quiet of a child finally asleep after fighting bedtime, one foot sticking out from under the blanket, one hand curled around a plush animal he claimed he no longer needed.
Then there is Minho’s quiet. That one has always been harder to name.
Years ago, you mistook it for safety. For steadiness. For love that did not need to be dressed up to be real. When you were twenty-something and stupidly certain that wanting the same future meant you would understand each other forever, Minho’s quiet felt like something solid beneath your feet. He did not say much, but he showed up. He fixed things. He remembered things. He stood beside you without making a ceremony of it, and for a long time, that felt like enough.
Then Jiho was born and enough became harder to measure.
The first year of your son’s life unraveled both of you in different ways. You remember it in fragments now: tiny socks in the washing machine, bottles lined up near the sink, Minho asleep upright on the couch with Jiho against his chest, your own reflection in the bathroom mirror looking less like you every morning. You remember the exhaustion most clearly, the kind that burrowed under your skin and made every unspoken thing feel louder than it was.
Minho loved Jiho. That had never been in question. He loved him in careful hands and warmed milk and the way he learned every small cry by sound. He loved him in clean laundry folded at two in the morning, in doctor’s appointments never forgotten, in the rocking chair he assembled before you were discharged from the hospital because he said the old one made a noise that would irritate you.
He loved you too, you think now.
Back then, you were not so sure.
Back then, all you knew was that he came home, kissed Jiho’s head, washed bottles, asked if you had eaten, and moved through your life with the controlled steadiness of a man doing everything right except reaching for you when you needed him to.
You were twenty-seven when you left. Jiho was nearly two. There had been no screaming. No affair. No single terrible night that split your life cleanly in two. Just one conversation after too many lonely months.
You told Minho you did not think you wanted the same life anymore.
He looked at you for a long time. Then he said, “Is that what you want?”
You wanted him to say no. You wanted him to say your name like losing you would ruin him. You wanted him to fight you, just once, with something louder than care carefully hidden inside chores and errands and practical concern.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “I think so.”
Minho’s eyes lowered to Jiho asleep between you on the couch, his cheek smushed against a blue blanket, his little mouth open around soft breaths.
Then Minho said, “Okay.”
Okay.
Not stay.
Not don’t go.
Not I love you.
Okay.
Six years later, Jiho is eight, and he does not remember the two of you together.
He knows Mom’s place and Dad’s place. He knows which drawer at each home holds his pajamas, which parent is more likely to let him have cereal after dinner, which couch has the better blanket, which pantry hides the snacks he is not supposed to know about. He knows school drop-offs and alternating weekends, birthdays spent with both of you at the same table, parent-teacher conferences where Minho sits with his arms crossed and listens so closely the teacher usually starts speaking to him like he might be grading her.
To Jiho, this is not broken. It’s just family.
Maybe that is why it’s easy to pretend you have all adjusted.
Your phone vibrates while you’re standing in the middle of your design studio, a stack of fabric swatches balanced against your hip and a sample book spread open across the consultation table. Across from you, your client flips through upholstery options, pausing every few seconds to hold one up against the mood board you’ve spent weeks building together. Afternoon sunlight pours through the front windows, catching on brass fixtures and illuminating the organized chaos of sketches, material samples, and half-finished concepts scattered throughout the space.
You glance at the screen.
Minho.
His name still does something inconvenient to your chest. Less dramatic than it used to be, maybe, but no less real. A small internal pause. An old room opening somewhere.
“Sorry,” you tell your client. “I should take this. It might be about my son.”
She smiles politely, and you step into the hallway.
“Hey,” you answer.
“Jiho left his science notebook in my car.”
You close your eyes. “Again?”
“He says it wasn’t again because last time was his math folder.”
“Of course he does.”
“He asked me to tell you the distinction matters.”
You can hear him walking, keys faintly shifting in the background. His voice is low and even, familiar enough to hurt if you let yourself listen too closely.
“I can pick it up after work,” you say. “I’m not too far from your office.”
“I’m near your studio. I’ll drop it off.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
You look down at the samples in your hand. White oak. Ash. Walnut. Three kinds of wood pretending not to hold different moods.
“Minho,” you say.
“What?”
“I can get it.”
“And I can bring it.”
There is no sharpness or impatience in his voice. Just that same quiet certainty that always makes arguing with him feel like trying to move a wall.
You sigh. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Have you eaten?”
You glance toward the living room, where your client is now squinting at wallpaper. “Not yet.”
“It’s almost two.”
“I am aware of the time.”
“Awareness isn’t lunch.”
You press your lips together, the beginning of a smile tugging there before you can stop it. “Did you call to scold me?”
“I called because your son has the organizational habits of a tornado.”
“My son?”
“He gets that from you.”
“Um, no, he absolutely gets that from you. You have six separate folders labeled ‘miscellaneous.’”
“They are different kinds of miscellaneous.”
“That sentence alone should make you ashamed.”
A quiet breath comes through the phone. “I’ll be at your studio in twenty,” he says.
“Okay.”
A pause. “Eat something.”
“You’re very bossy for someone delivering a notebook.”
“You’re very bad at lunch for someone who needs food to be alive.”
You roll your eyes, but your voice softens. “Drive safe.”
He is quiet for half a second. Then, “See you soon.”
The call ends.
You stand in the hallway longer than necessary, phone still in your hand, staring down at the dark screen.
It would be easier if Minho were colder.
You have thought that more times than you can count. It would be easier if he forgot things, if he showed up late, if he spoke to you with indifference, if shared custody had turned him into a polite stranger. It would be easier if the man who broke your heart had at least done you the courtesy of becoming someone else afterward.
Instead, he remains exactly who he has always been.
Twenty-four minutes later, your receptionist calls to say Jiho’s father is downstairs.
You find Minho in the lobby of your studio with Jiho’s notebook under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand. He is wearing a black coat over work clothes, hair neat but wind-touched, glasses sitting low on his nose.
He looks up before you say his name.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey.”
For a second, neither of you moves. Then he holds out the notebook. You take it carefully. “Thanks.”
Minho lifts the paper bag next.
You look at it. “Notebook came with a side quest?”
“You didn’t eat.”
“I said not yet.”
“You always say ‘not yet’.”
You take the bag because refusing it would only make him stand there longer, and standing near him already pulls at too many seams. Inside is a wrapped sandwich from the café around the corner, fruit, and an iced coffee. Your order. Exact down to the extra shot and light ice.
Your fingers tighten around the handles.
“You remembered.”
Minho frowns slightly, as if the statement itself is strange. “You’ve ordered the same thing for four years.”
“People forget things.”
“I don’t.”
He says it without emphasis. Simple fact.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter.
His gaze moves over your face. “You look tired.”
“You say that like it’s helpful.”
“It’s true.”
“Truth and helpfulness are not the same thing.”
His mouth tilts. Barely. “You’re wearing two different earrings.”
You reach up quickly, touching one ear, then the other. One small pearl. One gold stud.
“Oh my god.”
“It works.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It looks intentional if you don’t panic.”
You glare at him, but there is no real heat in it. “How long were you going to let me walk around like this?”
“I just got here.”
“You noticed immediately.”
“Yes, well you design interiors. Maybe people thought it was a concept.”
A laugh escapes you and his eyes soften when he hears it.
Your phone buzzes. A text lights the screen.
Seungmin: Dinner Friday still good?
You turn the screen down too late.
Minho’s gaze flicks to it, then away. He says nothing, but something in his expression folds inward, a shutter drawn almost silently.
“It’s just dinner,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Minho looks at you.
You don't know why you said it. Maybe because the change in his face still has the power to make you explain yourself. Maybe because some terrible part of you wants him to care.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he says.
“I know.”
A beat.
“Good.”
The word is polite. Flat. Perfectly reasonable.
It lands like a bruise.
You look down at Jiho’s notebook. “I should get back.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll see you Saturday for his game?”
“I’ll see you then.”
Minho never misses Jiho’s games. He stands along the fence with his hands in his pockets, saying very little, watching everything. When Jiho runs toward him afterward, sweaty and flushed and asking if he saw his almost-goal, Minho always says, “I saw.” And Jiho always beams like his father shouted across the field.
Maybe for him, it’s equivalent.
“Okay,” you say.
Minho nods once and turns to leave.
You wait until he is through the glass doors before you let yourself breathe.
On Saturday morning, Jiho’s soccer game takes place under a gray sky that keeps threatening rain and then losing interest. Parents gather along the sidelines with folding chairs and travel mugs, their conversations drifting above the field in soft bursts. You arrive ten minutes before kickoff with Jiho’s water bottle, an extra hoodie, and a packet of orange slices because you forgot it was your snack week until midnight and had to peel and separate them while half-asleep.
Minho stands near the fence in a navy sweatshirt and black joggers, arms crossed, expression neutral as he watches Jiho warm up. A paper cup of coffee sits on the grass by his shoe. Beside it is a second cup.
You approach slowly.
His eyes flick toward you. “You’re late.”
“I’m early.”
“Barely.”
“Good morning to you too.”
He bends and picks up the second cup, holding it out.
You stare at it.
“You’re predictable,” he says.
You take it. It’s warm through the cardboard. “That’s your explanation?”
“You like coffee when it’s lukewarm.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
Minho’s gaze moves back to the field.
You stand beside him, close enough that your sleeves nearly touch, both of you watching Jiho chase a ball with more determination than coordination. He is not the best player on the team, not even close, but he plays with his whole face, brows drawn together in concentration, mouth open as he runs. When he spots you, he waves so enthusiastically he almost misses the ball rolling past him.
Minho cups one hand near his mouth. “Jiho. Ball first.”
Jiho gives him a thumbs-up, then promptly trips over his own feet.
You wince. Minho doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense until Jiho pops back up.
Across the field, Jiho scores a goal by sheer chaos: the ball bounces off another kid’s shin, rolls toward him, and he kicks it with such surprise that everyone reacts half a second late. It goes in.
Jiho freezes, then turns toward both of you, face bright with disbelief.
You cheer immediately. Minho claps, once, twice, controlled but unmistakable. When Jiho keeps looking, Minho lifts both hands and gives him a small, firm nod and a smile.
Jiho’s smile widens.
“He’s going to talk about this for a week,” you say.
“Two.”
“Minimum.”
“He’ll ask me to build a trophy shelf.”
“You would.”
Minho takes a sip of his coffee. “Of course.”
You glance at him, and there it is again, the ache disguised as fondness.
After the game, Jiho runs over with muddy knees and grass on his sleeve, cheeks pink from the cold.
“Did you see?”
“Yes,” you say, crouching as he throws himself into you. “I saw.”
“I scored.”
“You did.”
“It was kind of an accident, but not fully.”
Minho crouches too, reaching to untie one of Jiho’s cleats before he tracks mud everywhere. “A goal is a goal.”
Jiho beams at him. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Can we get tteokbokki?”
You laugh. “That was fast.”
“I used a lot of energy.” Jiho looks between you with interest. “So can we get tteokbokki?”
Jiho pumps both fists, then immediately turns to you. “Are you coming too?”
The question hangs there.
Minho looks down at Jiho’s muddy cleats.
You look at Minho.
This is the kind of moment you have gotten good at stepping around. The harmless invitations from your son, the ones he asks because he doesn’t remember a time when you and Minho were anything but separate and therefore sees no reason why separate cannot still sit at the same table. To him, family is not one house. It is two adults who show up.
You should say you have work, which is technically true—you do have work.
Instead, Minho says, “Your mom might be busy.” An opening.
You look at him. His expression is calm, but he will not meet your eyes.
“I can come for a little,” you say.
Jiho grins. “Okay. Dad, you’re paying because you said no first.”
Minho stands with the cleats in one hand. “That makes no sense.”
“It does if you think about it.”
“I did. It doesn’t.”
You laugh softly as Jiho starts explaining his logic, all tangled reasoning and absolute confidence, while Minho pretends not to listen and opens the car door for him anyway.
Lunch is not uncomfortable. It should be awkward, sitting across from Minho in a small restaurant with Jiho between you, steam rising from a shared pan of tteokbokki, rain finally tapping against the front windows. It should feel like pretending.
Instead, it feels dangerously easy.
Jiho talks through half the meal, recounting his goal with increasing embellishment. By the third version, he has “dodged two defenders,” though you both watched the ball bounce directly to him. Minho lets him have it until Jiho claims he planned the angle.
“You did not plan the angle,” Minho says.
“I planned to kick.”
“That is completely different.”
“Angles are part of kicking.”
“You didn’t even know where your other foot was.”
Jiho considers this. “That’s true.”
You laugh, reaching over to wipe sauce from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. Jiho ducks away with an offended noise, but leans back in when Minho gives him a look.
After lunch, Jiho falls asleep in the backseat of Minho’s car before you even leave the parking lot. You stand beside your own car, rain misting through the air, holding the leftover container Minho insisted you take.
“Thanks for lunch,” you say after a moment.
Minho’s hands rest in his coat pockets. “Of course.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth. Minho looks at it, then away.
You shift the container in your hands. “Jiho’s happy when we do things together.”
“He is.”
“It doesn’t confuse him?”
Minho looks toward the car, where Jiho sleeps with his forehead pressed to the window, mouth slightly open. “He’s used to us.”
That should comfort you. It does, mostly, but something inside you twists anyway.
“He doesn’t remember,” you say.
Minho’s gaze returns to you.
“When we were together,” you clarify. “He doesn’t remember that.”
“No.”
“Sometimes I wonder if that made it easier for him.”
Minho is quiet for a moment. Rain beads on his dark hair, tiny silver points in the gray afternoon. Then he says, “Maybe.”
You wait.
He adds, “Or maybe he just knows we both love him.”
You look away because that is too simple and too much.
“He does know that,” you say.
Minho’s voice softens. “Good.”
You nod, but the word follows you home.
Good.
Always good. Never enough.
The family project begins the next Wednesday.
Jiho announces it at your dining table while eating noodles and arranging cucumber slices in order from smallest to largest.
“Ms. Park says we have to make something about our family.”
You look up from your laptop. “Something?”
“A project.”
“What kind of project?”
“Any kind.”
“That is very broad.”
“I know. It’s bad.”
You close your laptop halfway. “Did she give examples?”
Jiho nods. “A family tree. A poster. A drawing. A scrapbook. Junho is making his family as Pokémon.”
“That sounds fun.”
Jiho pokes at a cucumber slice. “I don’t want to do a family tree.”
“Why not?”
“Trees are boring.”
“Trees are cool. They provide oxygen.”
“My project doesn’t need oxygen.”
You concede with a nod. “Fair.”
He eats a noodle, thinking. His hair is still damp from his shower, sticking slightly to his forehead. Sometimes, in the soft light of the apartment, he looks so much like Minho it startles you. Not only the eyes or the set of his mouth, but the focus. The way he goes still when he is sorting through an idea.
“Can I make our family a house?” he asks.
Your hands pause on the laptop. “A house?”
“Yeah.”
“Why a house?”
He looks at you as if the answer is obvious. “Because you make houses nice inside, and Dad makes houses stand up.”
You stare at him for a moment.
Then you smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
Jiho looks pleased with himself and reaches for another cucumber. “So can I?”
“Of course you can.”
“Can I make two doors?”
“Sure.”
“One for your house and one for Dad’s?”
The question is simple. Practical. Unloaded by adult grief because Jiho doesn’t carry your history. Still, it presses somewhere tender.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “Two doors works.”
Jiho nods and begins sketching on the back of an old grocery list, tongue poking into his cheek. You watch him draw a rectangle, then a slanted roof, then three uneven figures in the doorway.
“Why are we all in one house if there are two doors?” you ask gently.
He shrugs. “It’s a project, Mom.”
You huff a laugh. “Right. My mistake.”
He looks up. “Also because it’s our family.”
Then he returns to his drawing, leaving you sitting there with the soft devastation of being corrected by someone who has never known your life any other way.
That weekend is Minho’s.
Jiho packs the project instructions into his backpack, along with two shirts, his math workbook, and a rock named Mr. Bite that you have been instructed not to call just a rock because that is apparently disrespectful.
At drop-off, Minho opens the door before you knock twice.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
Jiho pushes past you. “Dad, don’t step on Mr. Bite. He’s in the front pocket.”
Minho looks at you.
You lift your hands. “I don’t ask questions anymore.”
Minho crouches to unzip the front pocket of Jiho’s backpack, carefully removes the rock, and sets it on the narrow entry table beside his keys.
“Welcome back,” he tells it dryly.
Jiho beams. “See? Dad respects him.”
Minho just gives you a look. You press your lips together to keep from smiling.
Jiho kicks off his shoes and runs toward the living room. “I have a project!”
“I know, Mom told me,” Minho calls after him. “Take your socks off the floor.”
“They’re not on the floor.”
“They’re on the floor, I can see them.”
Jiho groans but returns to gather the socks.
You remain near the doorway, fingers curled around the strap of your bag. Minho notices. He always notices when you are preparing to leave, just as he notices when you linger.
“Busy weekend?” he asks.
“A little. Client meeting tomorrow morning.”
“And dinner?”
The question is even, too even.
You look at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Minho.”
His gaze drops to the keys on the table. “You said you had dinner Friday.”
“That was last week.”
“I know.”
You study his face, the careful blankness there. “Are you asking if I’m seeing him again?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m asking if Jiho needs to know anything.”
“Jiho doesn’t know about Seungmin.”
His eyes lift at the name. You wish you hadn’t said it.
“He doesn’t need to,” you add. “It’s not serious.”
Minho nods once. Something about that nod makes you tired. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“Lie a little better.”
His jaw moves slightly. For a second, you think he might actually say it. Something real. Something sharp enough to cut through the polite arrangements and shared calendars and careful handoffs.
But then, from the living room, Jiho yells, “Dad! Do you have giant paper?”
Minho’s gaze remains on you for a beat longer.
Then he turns his head. “How giant?”
“Like architect giant.”
Minho looks back at you, and whatever had nearly surfaced between you sinks again.
“I should go,” you say.
He nods. “I’ll bring him back Sunday at six.”
“Okay.”
You almost step away, then pause. “Make sure he does his reading log.”
“He will.”
“And no cereal for dinner.”
“It was one time.”
“It was three times.”
“Across several years.”
“Minho.”
He looks at you calmly. “I’ll feed him real food.”
“Thank you.”
You turn to go. Behind you, Minho says your name.
You stop.
He is still by the door, one hand resting against the frame. “Drive carefully.”
It’s such a small thing, and yet it still feels like love.
At Minho’s apartment, Jiho finds the storage tubes by accident.
He’s looking for paper, apparently unsatisfied by the large sketchpad Minho has already given him because it is ‘not building-y enough’. Minho lets him wander the edge of the office under supervision, watching as his son inspects shelves with the solemn curiosity of someone touring a museum dedicated entirely to boring adult objects.
“What’s that?” Jiho asks, pointing at the cluster of long cardboard tubes leaning in the corner.
“Old drawings.”
“Can I use one?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re old drawings.”
“Are they important?”
Minho looks at them. He should say yes and move on. Instead, he stands very still.
The tubes have followed him through two apartments, an office move, one breakup, and six years of telling himself that keeping things doesn’t mean waiting. He kept old project sketches from university, early firm work, competition drafts he never submitted. He kept things because architects are part archivist, part fool. The past piles up in paper if you let it.
But one tube is different.
He knows it without looking at the label. The label itself has faded, but he remembers his own handwriting.
house - personal
Jiho taps the tube lightly. “Dad?”
Minho blinks. “What?”
“Can I see?”
Minho’s first instinct is no. His second is no, more softly. His third is the thing that gets him into trouble: Jiho is looking at him with curiosity, not suspicion. To him, these are just papers. Lines. Rooms. Maybe something useful for a family project.
Minho pulls the tube free, dust clinging to the cardboard. He wipes it with his sleeve, then removes the cap.
The first sheet slides out with a sound that reaches farther back than he expects. Graphite lines. Measurements. Notes. The outline of a house that never stood anywhere except in his hands and your voice.
He sees your handwriting first, a small note near the kitchen.
not too cold! warm light here
He remembers you saying it, seven months pregnant, sitting cross-legged on the floor despite his repeated warnings that getting up would become a entire event. You had eaten half a bowl of strawberries and told him kitchens should not feel like showrooms because people were supposed to live messy lives in them.
He had told you that was not a design specification.
You had said, “Make it one.”
So he did.
“Dad?” Jiho asks.
Minho looks down at him. His son is waiting.
Minho should put it away. Instead, he hears himself say, “You can use this one.”
Jiho’s face lights. “Really?”
“Don’t rip it.”
“I won’t.”
“And don’t draw over the notes.”
Jiho peers at the paper. “There are notes?”
“Yes.”
“Whose?”
Minho’s hand rests lightly on the edge of the sheet. “Mine. And your mom’s.”
Jiho looks up. “Mom helped?”
“Yes.”
“With a building?”
“With a house.”
“Whose house?”
Minho is quiet. Jiho waits, but not anxiously. Just curious.
Minho rolls the sheet carefully and hands it to him. “Ours,” he says.
Jiho accepts this with the easy adaptability of a child. “Cool.”
Then he runs off to draw over Minho’s ghost.
For the next two weeks, the project moves between homes.
It comes to your apartment rolled in a tube almost too big for Jiho’s backpack and returns to Minho’s with new marker streaks, colored pencil shading, uneven labels, and smudges from Jiho resting his wrist in the wrong place while coloring. You don’t see the full sheet at first. Jiho works on sections, guarding the main part with the seriousness of an artist preparing for a gallery opening.
You catch glimpses—a yellow window, a red front door, a backyard labeled maybe turtle?, and a square marked mom’s work room.
You help him choose colors for the interior, biting back the instinct to correct his proportions when he draws a sofa larger than the kitchen island.
“It’s a very big sofa,” you say.
“It’s for family movie night.”
Your pencil pauses. “Family movie night?”
“Yeah. At Dad’s, the couch is too small if we all spread out with our feet up.”
“We don’t usually all sit there together.”
“But if we did.”
He says it easily and keeps coloring.
You say nothing, stunned into silence.
Minho drops Jiho off one Wednesday evening with the project tube under one arm and a grocery bag in his hand.
“What’s that?” you ask.
“Jiho said your smoke detector was beeping.”
You stare at him. “So you brought groceries?”
“Battery is in the bag.”
“You brought a battery in a grocery bag?”
“There are also groceries.”
“Why?”
“Your fridge looked almost empty last week.”
Your mouth opens, then closes.
Minho steps past you before you can decide whether to argue, removing his shoes automatically. Jiho runs straight to his room, project tube clutched to his chest, yelling something about not looking because it’s not finished.
You follow Minho into the kitchen, where he sets the bag on your counter and begins unpacking as if he still lives there.
Eggs. Strawberries. Tofu. Rice cakes. The tea you like. Jiho’s yogurt drinks. A pack of batteries.
“Minho,” you say slowly.
“What?”
“You can’t keep buying my groceries.”
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
“Some of these are for Jiho.”
“Some?”
He puts the strawberries in your fridge. “Most.”
“You bought my tea.”
“You get headaches when you work late.”
You turn away, pretending to inspect the smoke detector in the hallway. “I can take care of myself, Min.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Minho stills. The words sit between you, sharper than you intended.
You turn back. His face is calm, but there is something guarded beneath it now. “I didn’t mean you couldn’t.”
“I know,” you say, softening. “I just…”
You stop because you don’t know how to finish.
I just don’t know what to do when you still take care of me.
I just don’t know why you do it.
I just don’t know why you can do all this and still not tell me what it means.
Minho looks at you for a long moment. Then he reaches into the bag, takes out the batteries, and holds them up. “Where’s the ladder?”
You let out a tired laugh because of course that is where he goes. Back to the fixable thing. Back to the beep in the ceiling. Back to something with a beginning, a task, an end.
“In the closet.”
He nods and goes to get it.
That night, after Minho leaves and Jiho is in bed, you find a small container of sliced apples in the fridge.
Thin slices. Too thin for Jiho, who prefers wedges because they’re crunchier.
You stand there with the refrigerator light spilling over your bare feet, staring at apples cut exactly the way you like them, and feel something inside you slowly, painfully rearrange itself.
The project is due on Friday.
On Thursday evening, Jiho spreads it across your dining table for final touches.
“Don’t look too much,” he says, placing both hands over the center of the paper.
“I’m helping you glue cotton clouds.”
He allows you a corner.
You sit beside him with glue on your fingers while he narrates the layout, explaining which room belongs to whom, which window gets the best sun, where Mr. Bite would live if rocks needed bedrooms. You laugh when appropriate, ask questions when he wants you to, and try not to overstep.
Then Jiho reaches for a green pencil, and his sleeve drags across the paper.
For the first time, the center is fully visible.
You stop breathing.
Under Jiho’s bright marker house are lines you know with a familiarity that frightens you. Because your body remembers them before your mind catches up.
The angle of the staircase. The wide kitchen. The eastern-facing room marked for the nursery. The window seat tucked beneath the stairs because you once said every home needed a place to hide without actually hiding.
Your hand rises to your mouth.
There, beneath Jiho’s uneven blue shading, is Minho’s handwriting.
nursery morning light
Near the kitchen:
wide island for mama’s samples
Near the living room:
built-ins here? she wanted storage but not ugly storage
You aren’t aware you’ve made a sound until Jiho looks up.
“Mom?”
You try to answer. Nothing comes out.
He follows your gaze to the paper. “Did I mess it up?”
“No.” You say it too quickly, reaching for him. “No, baby. You didn’t.”
“You look weird.”
You let out an unsteady breath. “I just recognize this.”
“The house?”
You nod, fingers hovering over the notes. You don’t touch them. Some foolish part of you worries the pencil will vanish if you do.
“Dad said you helped,” Jiho says.
You look at him. “He told you that?”
“Yeah. He said not to cover the writing because it was important.”
Your throat tightens. “Did he say anything else?”
Jiho thinks, tapping the green pencil against his chin. “He said it was from before I was born.”
You close your eyes.
The house had started as a joke, then a fantasy, then something close to a plan. Minho drew it during the last trimester, when you were swollen and restless and unable to sleep. You would sit beside him at the low table in your old apartment and point at inspiration photos while he complained about impractical layouts and drew them anyway.
You had forgotten how much of yourself was in it.
No—that’s not true. You had tried to forget.
“Mom?” Jiho says.
You open your eyes.
He is watching you carefully, his small face drawn with concern. “Are you mad Dad gave it to me?”
“No,” you say. “I’m not mad.”
“Because I can ask him for different paper. It’ll take forever to redo but it’s okay.”
“No, Jiho.” You pull him close and kiss the side of his head. “This paper is perfect.”
He relaxes against you, warm and solid and still small enough to lean without thinking.
After a moment, he says, “Dad keeps important stuff.”
You stare at the paper. “What do you mean?”
“He has a box.”
“A box?”
“Not a box. A tube. And boxes.” Jiho frowns, trying to categorize the storage system. “He said some stuff is not for playing.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Pictures. Old papers. Baby stuff.” Jiho shrugs. “I saw my tiny hospital hat once. It was ugly.”
You laugh through the tightness in your chest. “It was not ugly.”
“It was kind of ugly.”
“It was adorable.”
“It was wrinkly.”
“You were wrinkly.”
He gasps. “Rude.”
You smile and smooth his hair.
He looks back down at the project, then reaches for the green pencil again. “Dad doesn’t throw away important stuff.”
You barely sleep.
Instead, you lie awake thinking about a cardboard tube in Minho’s apartment. About your notes in the margins. About the fact that he had kept the house for eight years. Not the final plan of a completed building, or a professional project worth archiving.
A dream. An unfinished future.
The next morning, you and Minho attend Jiho’s school presentation.
You arrive separately, which is how you arrive everywhere now. You get there first, sitting in one of the small chairs near the back of the classroom with your knees awkwardly angled and your tote bag tucked between your feet. The walls are covered in student work, paper planets, vocabulary words, and drawings of spring flowers. The room smells like crayons, pencil shavings, and whatever cleaner schools use that always reminds you of childhood.
Minho slips in five minutes later and spots you immediately. You lift a hand slightly as he comes over and sits beside you, leaving a polite amount of space between your chairs.
“You made it,” you say quietly.
“I said I would.”
“I know.”
He glances at you, and you feel the old ache again, the ache of things said plainly that still carry more weight than they should.
Jiho sees you both from the front of the room and waves with one hand, the other holding his rolled project. His smile is nervous but proud.
You wave back and Minho gives him a small nod and smile.
Jiho visibly straightens.
Ms. Park starts the presentations. A family tree. A poster about grandparents. A shoebox diorama with cotton-ball clouds. Copycat.
Jiho is fourth.
When his name is called, he carries his project to the front and unrolls it across the board with Ms. Park’s help. The paper is almost too large, curling at the edges despite the tape.
You feel Minho go still beside you.
For the first time, he sees what Jiho has done with it.
The dream house is almost hidden beneath color now, transformed by an eight-year-old’s imagination. The lines are still there, faint beneath marker and label and glue, but Jiho has made it his own. Flowers along the walkway. A huge sofa in the living room. A backyard. Three figures near the front door, their hands connected by one long line.
Jiho clears his throat. “My project is my family as a house,” he begins, reading from an index card he has clearly bent in half several times. “My mom designs inside places, and my dad designs buildings. So I thought a house made sense because houses need both or else they are either boring or falling down.”
A few parents chuckle. Minho exhales softly through his nose. You press your fingers to your lips.
Jiho continues, gaining confidence. “This is my room. This is Mom’s work room because she has a lot of samples and says they’re not trash even though they might be trash. This is Dad’s table because he draws buildings and says rulers disappear when you need them.”
Minho mutters, very quietly, “They do.”
Jiho points to the three figures. “This is us. We don’t live in one house, but we’re still family. Ms. Park said family can be people who take care of you.”
He glances toward you, then Minho. Then he looks back at the class.
“My mom says things a lot. Like, good job, and I love you, and please don’t talk to me from upstairs.” A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and Jiho smiles shyly. “My dad doesn’t say as much, but he remembers stuff. Like my cleats and snacks and when Mom likes apples cut thin.”
Your cheeks burn. Beside you, Minho taps his foot nervously.
Jiho shrugs, small and natural, one shoulder lifting. “Dad is just quiet. But I know he loves both of us.”
The room softens. However, this is still a third-grade classroom. A boy in the front row is picking at the rubber sole of his shoe, Ms. Park smiles with wet eyes she is trying to hide, and a baby cries from the back row.
But for you, everything narrows to Minho’s hand resting on his knee, fingers curled tightly into his palm.
Jiho finishes with, “That’s my family. Also, I want a turtle, but my parents said no.”
Jiho bows because apparently someone told him presentations require flair, then carries his project back to his desk with his ears bright red.
For the rest of the morning, you barely hear anything.
After the presentations, parents gather around the displays. Jiho drags both of you to his desk and shows you details he already explained, because pride requires repetition. Minho listens closely, asking small questions that make Jiho glow. Why this window? Why this room? Why is the turtle area larger than the kitchen?
“Because turtles need enrichment,” Jiho says.
“How do you know that word?”
“YouTube.”
Minho looks at you. You lift your hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
For a moment, it feels almost normal. Then Jiho runs off to show his friend where he drew Mr. Bite in the garden, and you are left standing beside Minho with the project between you.
You look at the old notes beneath the colors.
Minho looks at you. “I didn’t know he would say all that,” he says.
You nod. “I know.”
“I didn’t tell him to.”
“I know.”
A pause. Then you say, “But he’s right.”
The classroom noise swells around you, bright and busy, children calling for parents, chairs scraping, paper rustling. You should not have this conversation here, between desks and glue sticks and a bulletin board about fractions.
Minho seems to understand that too. He looks down at the project. “Can we talk later?”
Your heart starts beating too hard. You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”
That evening, Jiho goes to Minho’s parents’.
You spend the rest of the day working badly. You choose the wrong rug for a client deck, attach the wrong file to an email, and stare at one fabric sample for ten full minutes without registering the color. By five, you give up and close your laptop.
Minho texts at six-thirty.
Minho: Jiho is finishing homework. I can meet after dropping him off if you still want to talk.
You read the message three times.
Then reply—
You: My place?
His answer comes quickly.
Minho: Okay
At eight-forty, there is a knock at your door.
When you open it, Minho stands in the hallway wearing a black coat, hands in his pockets, face calm enough that only someone who knows him would notice the tension at the corners of his mouth.
You step aside and he enters quietly, removing his shoes. The old familiarity of it catches you off guard. He has always moved through your home carefully, even after it stopped being his. Never assuming too much. Never forgetting where things are.
“Tea?” you ask.
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
Despite everything, you smile a little. “Same old Minho.”
He looks relieved, though only for a second.
You walk to the dining table where Jiho’s project rests, rolled loosely. Minho’s gaze follows it. “I know I should have asked before giving it to him,” he says.
You turn. “That’s not why I wanted to talk.”
“I didn’t think.”
“I don’t believe that.”
His mouth tightens.
“You always think,” you say. “Sometimes too much.”
He looks down.
You touch the edge of the paper. “You kept it.”
“Yes.”
“All this time.”
“Yes.”
The same simple answer. The same unbearable calm.
You unroll the project carefully, smoothing the curling edge with your palm. Jiho’s colorful house fills the table, bright and sweet and imperfect. Beneath it, the pencil lines remain.
Your fingers hover over the note near the kitchen.
wide island for mama’s samples
“You remembered everything I wanted,” you say.
Minho stands across from you, hands still in his pockets. “Not everything.”
“Enough.”
His eyes lower to the paper.
You take a breath that does not quite steady you. “Jiho said you kept important things.”
Minho’s expression closes slightly.
“What else did you keep?”
He is quiet for so long that you think he will not answer. Then he softly says, “A lot.”
Your chest tightens. “Like what?”
“The first sketches.” His voice is low. “The paint samples you liked. The magazine pages you tore out. Ultrasound photos. Jiho’s hospital bracelet. Yours too.”
You press a hand to your mouth.
Minho looks away, jaw tense. “I know.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s strange.”
“It’s not.”
“It is.”
“It’s not,” you repeat, firmer now.
He looks at you then, and the guardedness in his face hurts more than anger would have.
“Why?” you ask. The word comes out barely above a whisper.
Minho’s gaze drops to the project. For a moment, he is silent, thoughtful. And then he breaks it by saying, “Because it was ours.”
Your eyes close. It’s so Minho of him—plain, honest, and devastating without trying to be.
“I didn’t keep it because I thought we’d get back together,” he continues. “I didn’t let myself think that.”
You open your eyes.
He swallows. “But throwing it away felt like saying it didn’t matter.”
The first tear slips before you can stop it. Minho sees it immediately. His hand shifts at his side, instinct pulling him toward you, restraint holding him back.
You hate it. You hate that he no longer knows whether he is allowed to comfort you.
“It mattered,” you say.
“I know.”
“No.” Your voice cracks. “I don’t think you do. It mattered so much that when I thought you didn’t want it anymore, I didn’t know how to stay.” You wipe at your cheek, frustrated by the tears now that they have started. “I thought you fell out of love with me.”
His features tighten. For once, the silence that follows is not unreadable. It’s wounded. “You thought what?”
“You never said anything.”
His brows draw together, pain moving through the restraint. “I was there.”
“I know.”
“I came home to you every night.”
“I know.”
“I took care of you.”
“I know, Minho.” The words come out broken. “That’s what made it so confusing.”
He looks like he doesn’t understand. Or maybe like he’s beginning to.
You press your fingers against the table, grounding yourself beside the house you never built. “You did everything. You changed diapers and warmed bottles and made sure I ate and fixed every broken thing in that apartment. But after a while, I couldn’t tell if you were doing it because you loved me or because you were responsible.”
Minho says nothing.
“You were so quiet,” you continue. “And I was so tired. I kept waiting for you to tell me you were happy. That you wanted us. That you still wanted me, not just Jiho, not just the life we accidentally made around him.”
His eyes shine. “I wanted you,” he says. The words come out rough. “I wanted all of it,” he continues. “I thought you knew.”
You laugh once, softly, sadly. “I didn’t.”
His gaze drops. “I thought staying was saying it,” he says.
You look at him through tears. He lifts his eyes again, and this time, there is no distance left to hide behind. “I was wrong.”
The words settle between you. Not enough to erase years. But real.
You wipe your cheek. “When I told you I thought we didn’t want the same life, you said okay.”
Minho’s jaw tightens. “Because I thought you were telling me you wanted to leave.”
“I was asking you not to let me.”
Pain crosses his face. Quiet, but unmistakable. “I didn’t know how to fight without making it worse,” he says. “You were exhausted. You looked sad all the time. I thought if I asked you to stay, I would be asking you to keep being unhappy. So I said okay,” he continues. “And I hated myself for it.”
The room goes quiet. Outside, life continues with insulting indifference while you stand in front of the man you have loved for years and realize you were both lonely in the same house.
You look down at Jiho’s project. “He doesn’t remember us together,” you say.
“No.”
“He still drew us that way.”
Minho’s eyes move to the three figures by the front door, hands connected by one long crayon line. “He drew his family,” he says.
You reach for the back of a chair, but Minho steps around the table before you can fully steady yourself.
“Can I?” he asks.
It takes you a moment to understand what he means. Then you nod. “Please.”
And when his hand touches your arm, careful and warm, you fold toward him with a sound you wish you could keep inside.
Minho holds you. Not like a co-parent fulfilling some emergency comfort role. No, he holds you like someone who has known the shape of you for years and never forgot where his hands belonged. One arm wraps around your back, the other hand settling at the back of your head, his palm firm and familiar.
You cry into his chest, and his chin lowers near your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s so quiet you almost miss it. Then again, stronger, “I’m sorry.”
Your fingers curl into his coat. “I’m sorry too.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“Yes, I do.” You pull back enough to look at him. “I should have told you what I needed. I should have said it instead of testing you with silence.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping a tear with such care it hurts. “You were tired.”
“So were you.”
“I should have told you anyway.”
You let out a shaky breath. “You’re telling me now.”
His eyes hold yours for a moment, deciding how much to confess. Then he says it. “I never stopped loving you.”
A breath escapes your parted lips, eyes welling.
Minho’s hand remains at your cheek, warm and steady. “I tried to stop. I thought I had to, especially when I saw you with someone else.” His mouth tightens faintly. “I was bad at it.”
A laugh breaks through your tears, fragile and wet. “At stopping?”
“At being normal.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’ve never been normal.”
“I know.”
There’s that warmth again.
Then he grows serious.
“I love you,” he says. “I loved you then. I love you now. I was a fool for thinking you could hear it if I never said it.”
Your face crumples. “I was a fool for doubting you.”
“No,” he says immediately. “Don’t make it yours.”
“It’s ours,” you whisper.
He looks at you for a long moment before nodding once. “Ours.”
You lift your hand to his wrist, holding him there. “I never stopped loving you either.”
Minho closes his eyes. The breath he releases is unsteady, and that, more than anything, breaks your heart open. All this time, you thought his calm meant he had survived you. You never thought it might mean he was holding himself together.
When he opens his eyes again, they are damp.
“Can I kiss you?” he asks.
You almost laugh because after everything, after a child, a breakup, six years of shared custody, the question feels tender enough to undo you. “Yes.”
Minho kisses you carefully at first. Softly. Then your hand slides into his hair and his breath catches, and the carefulness thins into something deeper. He kisses you like he never stopped knowing how to. His fingers cradle your jaw, his other arm tightening at your waist, and when he tilts his head to kiss you again, you feel years of longing break loose all at once.
It’s not perfect.
There are tears. A shaky laugh against his mouth. When you finally pull back, his forehead rests against yours.
“I love you,” he says again.
You smile through the tears. “Practicing?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His mouth curves. “Bossy.”
“You need repetition.”
“I’m learning.”
Your heart softens. From your phone on the table, a notification buzzes, but neither of you looks at it.
Minho’s thumb moves slowly along your cheek. “What about Seungmin?”
You lean back enough to see him. “There isn’t a Seungmin.”
His brow lifts slightly.
“There was dinner,” you clarify. “Twice. And coffee once, which you apparently think is worse.”
“It is.”
“It wasn’t serious.”
Minho looks down, almost embarrassed by his own relief.
You touch his cheek. “I think I was trying to prove I could move on.”
His eyes return to yours. “And?”
You shake your head. “I was bad at it.”
The smallest smile appears.
“Good,” he says.
You narrow your eyes. “That was smug.”
“No.”
“It was.”
“A little.”
You laugh, and this time, when he looks at you, he doesn’t look away. And then he turns and leads you down the hallway toward your bedroom and your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat.
“Minho—” you start, but he stops walking, turns, cups your face between both palms.
“I meant it,” he says, and his voice is low, rough around the edges, nothing like the careful, polite tone he used during those first awful years of shared custody. This is the voice he used to use when he’d wake you up in the middle of the night, mouth already finding your neck. “Every word. And I’m going to show you. If you’ll let me.”
You nod. It’s all you can do.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you both, and the sound of it—that soft, final sound—sends a pulse straight between your thighs. The curtains are still open, late afternoon sunlight pooling gold across the rumpled duvet you didn’t bother making this morning. You didn’t know he was coming over. You didn’t know any of this was going to happen.
Minho turns you around slowly, hands settling on your shoulders. His thumbs trace the curve of your collarbone through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, and you watch his face in the dresser mirror across the room—the way his jaw tightens, the way his tongue wets his bottom lip.
“I’ve thought about this, about you,” he murmurs, “for six years.”
His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He doesn’t pull it up right away—just tucks his fingertips underneath, brushes them against the skin of your waist, and the contact is so light it makes your stomach clench.
Then he lifts your shirt.
The fabric slides up over your ribs, your breasts, and you raise your arms automatically, letting him pull it over your head. It falls to the floor somewhere, and you’re standing in front of him in your worn-in bra, the one with the stretched elastic and the faded color, and suddenly you’re acutely, painfully aware of every change in your body since the last time he saw you like this. Your arms twitch, instinct telling you to cover yourself.
“Don’t,” Minho breathes.
He catches your wrists and brings them back down to your sides.
“Don’t you dare hide from me.”
His gaze moves over you—your shoulders, the swell of your breasts, the softness of your belly that wasn’t there before. You feel exposed. Raw. But the way he’s looking at you—fuck, the way he’s looking at you—it’s like he’s staring at something holy.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “I mean it. Look at you. Look at how gorgeous you are.”
His hands move to your waist, palms sliding up your ribcage, thumbs hooking just beneath the underwire of your bra.
“I think about you,” he says. “Your skin. The way you smell. The sounds you make when I—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. “I’m going to take my time tonight. I’m going to worship every single inch of you until you understand how much I’ve missed you.”
He unclasps your bra with one hand—still remembers the trick of it, the way the hooks catch and release—and the straps slide down your arms. The fabric falls away, and your nipples tighten in the cool air of the bedroom.
Minho makes a sound low in his throat.
“Stunning,” he whispers. “Absolutely stunning.”
He leans in, and his mouth finds the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. The kiss is slow, open-mouthed, his tongue tracing a wet line along your skin. You shudder, and he feels it—you know he does—because his grip on your waist tightens.
“I’m going to kiss every part of you,” he says against your throat. “Every fucking part. Starting here.” His mouth moves down. Along your collarbone now, lips dragging, tongue flicking out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. Your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt because you need something to hold onto.
“Minho.”
He groans and sinks lower. His mouth finds the swell of your left breast, and he kisses the curve of it, his stubble scraping your sensitive skin, making your hips jerk involuntarily.
“I love these,” he murmurs, cupping your breast in his palm, thumb brushing over the peaked nipple. “I love how responsive they are. How hard they get when I barely touch you.”
He lowers his head and takes your nipple into his mouth.
The heat of it—the wet, sucking heat—makes your back arch. His tongue circles, slow and deliberate, and he watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and heavy-lidded. When he grazes his teeth over the sensitive peak, you gasp, and your fingers twist in his shirt.
“That’s it.” His voice is muffled against your skin. “Let me hear you.” He switches to the other breast, giving it the same attention, laving and sucking until you’re squirming, until your thighs are pressing together and there’s a damp heat building between them that’s becoming impossible to ignore.
But he’s not done.
Minho continues his path downward. His mouth traces the valley between your breasts, then lower—over your sternum, your ribs, the soft plane of your belly. He pauses at your waistband, pressing a kiss just above the button of your jeans.
“I remember every curve,” he says. “Every spot that makes you gasp. But I want to learn you again. All of you.”
He unbuttons your jeans with careful, deliberate movements, and the denim slides down your thighs. You step out of them, and then you’re standing in nothing but your panties—simple cotton ones, because you weren’t expecting anyone to see them—and Minho is kneeling in front of you.
Kneeling.
“You’re breathtaking,” he says, looking up at you, and the word comes out so sincere it makes your chest ache. “Every part of you. Your thighs—fuck, I dream about these thighs wrapped around my head.”
He presses a kiss to your left hip bone, then your right.
“These hips. The way they fit in my hands.”
His palms curl around your hip bones, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the elastic of your panties.
“I’m going to take these off now,” he says, fingers hooking into the waistband. “And then I’m going to put my mouth on you until you come. And I’m going to watch you the whole time, because there’s nothing—nothing—sexier than watching you fall apart for me.”
The panties slide down your legs. You step out of them, and then you’re completely bare, standing in the afternoon sunlight while he stares at you like you’re the most exquisite thing he’s ever seen.
“On the bed for me, baby,” he says, and his voice has gone rough, ragged.
You move backward until your calves hit the edge of the mattress. He follows, still on his knees, crawling toward you in a way that’s almost predatory. When the backs of your thighs hit the duvet, he guides you down onto the mattress, spreading your legs with careful, gentle hands.
“So pretty,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. His shoulders press against the inside of your legs, spreading you wider. “Look at you. So wet already, and I’ve barely touched you.”
His breath ghosts over your center, and your hips buck upward involuntarily.
“Minho, please—”
“Please what?” His eyes flick up to meet yours, and there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”
“Your mouth. Please.”
He doesn’t make you wait. His tongue drags through your folds, broad and flat, and the sensation rips a moan from your throat that you didn’t know you were holding. He groans against you—groans, like the taste of you is the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth—and the vibration of it sends sparks up your spine.
“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to speak. “You taste even better than I remember. I could stay here for hours.”
He dives back in. His tongue traces patterns against your clit—circles, then figure-eights, then a steady, pulsing rhythm that has your fingers twisting in the duvet. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s always known.
“Remember this?” He licks a slow stripe up the center of you. “Remember how I used to make you scream?”
You can’t answer. You can barely even breathe.
His mouth is relentless. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, the occasional scrape of teeth that makes you jerk and gasp. He’s watching you—you can feel his gaze burning into you—and every time your eyes flutter open, he’s there, dark and intent and so fucking aroused it’s written all over his face.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your clit. “Let go. I want to feel you come apart on my tongue.”
Two fingers slide inside you, curling upward, finding that spot he always knew how to hit. Your back arches off the mattress.
“Fuck—Minho—fuck—”
“Yeah,” he growls. “Say my name. Scream it.”
His fingers pump in and out, his mouth working your clit with obscene, wet sounds that fill the room. The pressure builds, coiling low and tight, and you’re so close now, right on the edge, thighs trembling, hands fisting in his hair.
“I’m—I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he says, and his voice is raw, wrecked. “Come for me. I want to feel it. I want to watch your face—I want to see how fucking gorgeous you look when you shatter.”
The orgasm hits you like a wave—no, not a wave, something sharper, something that whites out your vision and wrenches a scream from somewhere deep in your chest. Your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, just rides you through it with his mouth and his fingers and his low, rumbling groans that vibrate straight through your clit.
You come down trembling, gasping, and he’s still kissing you—softer now, gentler—pressing his lips to the inside of your thigh, your hip, your belly.
“Beautiful,” he’s murmuring. “So fucking beautiful. Wish you could see yourself. Feel good?”
You can only nod, chest heaving.
He rises up onto his knees, still between your thighs, and tugs his shirt over his head. You watch the fabric fly off to reveal his chest and your breath catches.
His shirt hits the floor. His hands move to his belt, and you watch him unbuckle it, unbutton his jeans, shove them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free—thick and heavy, the tip already glistening—and your mouth goes dry.
Fuck. You remember him being big, but you’d forgotten just how much he fills your hand. How much he stretches your pussy.
He strokes himself once, twice, his eyes locked on yours. “I need to be inside you. Please, baby. I can’t wait anymore.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “Now. Please.”
He settles between your thighs, the weight of him pressing you into the mattress, and it feels like coming home. His hips slot against yours, and you can feel the hot, hard length of him sliding through your wet folds—not pushing in yet, just rocking, coating himself in your slick.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do.
He pushes in. The stretch is breathtaking—literally, you forget how to inhale for a moment—and Minho groans, a long, shuddering sound that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to yours.
“Fuck,” he grinds out. “So tight. So wet. You feel—fuck—you feel incredible.”
He sinks deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried all the way inside you. He stays there, motionless, letting you adjust, and you cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
“Okay?” he breathes.
“More than okay. Move. Please.”
He pulls out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and thrusts back in with a roll of his hips that hits exactly the right angle. You gasp, and he does it again. And again. A rhythm builds, slow and deep, the kind of fucking that feels less like sex and more like a whole experience.
His hips roll, grinding against your clit, and your moan turns into a cry.
“Yeah, that’s it. That’s the sound I’ve been missing. Scream for me, baby. Let everyone hear how good I’m making you feel.”
The bed creaks beneath you, a steady, rhythmic counterpoint to the slap of skin against skin. He’s hitting that spot inside you with every thrust now, the one that makes your vision blur and your toes curl, and you can feel another orgasm building, building, building—
“You’re getting close again,” he growls. “I can feel it. Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, baby. Come on my cock. Please. Wanna feel you come on my cock.”
His thumb finds your clit, pressing down in tight circles, and that’s all it takes.
The orgasm tears through you, sharper than the first one, and you scream his name, your nails raking down his back as your body clenches around him. He fucks you through it, groaning, his rhythm stuttering as he chases his own release.
“Gonna come,” he grits out. “Gonna fill you up—fuck—is that okay? Can I come inside you?”
“Yes. Yes.”
His hips snap forward once, twice, and then he buries himself deep with a sound that’s almost animalistic—a growl that rumbles through his chest and vibrates against your skin.
“Mine,” he grinds out, pulsing inside you. “Mine.”
You feel every spurt of his release, hot and wet, and he stays there, still buried deep, as his hips give one final, shuddering thrust.
Minho doesn’t pull out. He stays inside you, his weight pressed against you, his face buried in your neck. He whispers sweet nothings, kisses your skin softly before eventually rolling off you to clean you up.
He doesn’t stay the night—not that night.
It would be easy to let the moment swallow everything, to pretend one confession has rearranged all the years between you neatly enough for morning. But you are both older now. Softer in some places, more careful in others. There is Jiho to think about, and yourselves too, the versions of you that loved badly despite loving deeply.
So Minho leaves after midnight with your kiss still on his mouth and one of your hands caught in his until the last possible second.
At the door, he turns back.
“I’ll call tomorrow,” he says.
You lean against the frame. “Will you?”
His eyes soften at the question beneath the question. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
He takes a breath. “I love you.”
You smile. “I love you too.”
He nods once, like he is storing the answer somewhere permanent, smiles softly, then walks to his car.
The next weeks don’t become a fairytale—they become something better. They become deliberate.
Minho calls when he says he will. Sometimes the conversations are short, practical things about Jiho’s schedule or school forms, but he no longer lets them end there. He asks about your work. He tells you when a meeting went badly. He sends you a photo of Jiho asleep on his couch with Mr. Bite balanced on his chest.
He starts saying what he means before silence can do the damage for him.
I missed you today.
I wanted to tell you this earlier.
I’m not upset. I’m thinking.
You try too.
When fear rises, you name it instead of burying it. When you need reassurance, you ask, even when it makes you feel exposed. When Minho reaches for you in quiet ways, you let yourself see them without expecting them to replace words entirely.
Jiho notices, of course.
One Saturday morning, three weeks after the presentation, you go to Minho’s apartment for breakfast because Jiho has been lobbying for family pancakes. You arrive with strawberries and whipped cream, and Minho opens the door wearing a black T-shirt dusted with flour.
You stare at him.
He looks down. “Don’t ask.”
You laugh and step inside, pressing a kiss to his lips that he returns eagerly.
Breakfast is chaotic in the ordinary way of real homes. Jiho drops a strawberry then steps on it while trying to pick it up. You burn the first pancake because you are distracted by Minho standing too close behind you to reach the spatula, his hand settling briefly at your waist as he passes. Jiho talks through the entire meal about school, turtles, and everything else that pops into his brain.
Halfway through his second pancake, he looks between you and Minho. “You guys are being different.”
You freeze. Minho doesn’t, though his gaze shifts to you before returning to Jiho. “Different how?”
Jiho shrugs. “Just different.”
“Good different?” you ask carefully.
He thinks about it while chewing, then nods. “Less awkward.”
Minho huffs softly. You hide your smile behind your coffee.
Jiho points his fork at Minho. “You say stuff more, Dad.”
Minho’s ears turn faintly pink. You look at him, delighted.
“Do I?” Minho asks, voice even.
“Yes.” Jiho spears a strawberry. “You told Mom you missed her on the phone.”
Your eyes widen. Minho looks at you slowly.
You whisper, “Speakerphone?”
“I didn’t know he was listening,” Minho mutters.
“You also said something about coming, but then Mom never showed up,” Jiho says thoughtfully.
“Okay! I am never using my phone around you. Ever,” Minho says, pressing his palms to the table, ears red.
Jiho laughs, pointing to his dad’s obvious embarrassment.
You face palm yourself, cheeks flushed, but you can’t hide the laugh that slips out.
Minho reaches for his coffee, but his other hand brushes yours beneath the table. His fingers hook lightly around yours, hidden from Jiho’s view.
Jiho keeps eating, satisfied with whatever conclusion he has drawn. Then he says, “I like it.”
You look at him in question.
“Pancakes?” Minho asks.
Jiho rolls his eyes in the exact way Minho does, which is frankly unsettling. “Noooo. You guys.”
You feel your face soften, reaching over to wipe a bit of cream from Jiho’s cheek. “We like it too.”
Jiho nods once. “Good.”
Minho murmurs, “Bossy.”
“He gets it from you,” you say.
Jiho smiles around his fork. “I get my intelligence from myself.”
Minho rolls his eyes. “Finish your breakfast.”
Later, after the plates are cleared and Jiho disappears to the living room to introduce Mr. Bite to a new rock named Mrs. Chew, you stand at Minho’s sink rinsing mugs while he dries beside you.
His apartment is bright in the morning, sunlight touching the edges of the counter, the table, the project Jiho insisted on bringing home after it was graded. It is spread carefully near the window now, the vibrant house glowing over old pencil lines.
Minho follows your gaze. “I want to frame it,” he says.
You turn to him. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Where would you put it?”
He looks at the project, then at you. “Wherever we decide.”
The word moves through you slowly. We.
You lean against the counter. “That sounds like a big conversation.”
“It is.”
“Are you ready for that?”
Minho dries the mug in his hands carefully, then sets it down. He doesn’t answer right away, and once, that silence would have scared you. Now, you wait.
When he looks at you, his face is open. “I don’t want to rush Jiho,” he says. “Or you.”
You nod.
“But I want that life,” he continues. “The one I didn’t tell you I wanted clearly enough.” He turns to face you fully. “I want breakfast with you. I want your samples all over the table even though you call it organized and it isn’t. I want Jiho’s shoes in the wrong place and your tea in my cabinets and arguments about paint colors that are all white.”
A laugh breaks softly from your chest.
Minho steps closer. “I want the house,” he says. “Whatever it looks like.”
Your eyes burn again, but this time, the tears come with something warmer beneath them. You reach for his hand. “I want that too.” His fingers close around yours.
For a moment, you stand there in the kitchen with sunlight on the floor and your son’s laughter coming from upstairs, the future no longer a perfect drawing kept in a tube, but something alive and imperfect and waiting to be built carefully.
Minho lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
Then, because he is learning, because quiet love is still love but not the only kind you need, he says it.
“I love you.”
You smile. “I know.”
His brows lift in mock offense.
Laughing softly, you lean across the small space between you and catch his mouth with yours.
It starts briefly, meant to be teasing, but Minho’s hand slides to your jaw and suddenly he’s kissing you back, slow and familiar. The kind of kiss built from years of knowing each other. The kind that says everything neither of you has ever been particularly good at putting into words.
When you finally pull away, his eyes are warm.
You squeeze his hand and add, “I love you too.”
From the living room, Jiho calls, “Can Mrs. Chew come to Mom’s house?”
The moment shatters instantly.
Minho sighs, rubbing his eyes. “And there it is.”
You laugh. “Is Mrs. Chew another rock?” you call back.
A pause. Then Jiho says, “She’s family.”
Minho looks at you. You look at him. And in the bright, ordinary quiet that follows, the two of you begin again.
STORY M.LIST || PLAYLIST || SIDE CHARACTERS || READ ON AO3
pairing: non-idol!jooyeon x fem!reader | streetfighter!jooyeon x bookworm!reader | good girl x bad boy trope
genre: slice of life, smut w/ plot, angst ( 18+ ) » 24k+ words
after jooyeon lets the final chance to step up slip away, you open a thrilling new chapter, away from the toxic cycle of hope and heartache - dream career, a fresh circle of friends and a potential romance. but moving on is easier said than done. as you try to build your new life, the invisible, stubborn thread of fate pulls you back into each other’s orbits, and refuses to snap
c.w ! illegal street fighting, detailed descriptions of wounds, blood and bruises, possessive language/behaviour, jealousy, aggression (not towards reader), drinking, jooyeon’s usual red flags
contains: time jumps, pov switching, sub!reader (but also soft!dom!reader in that one scene), unprotected sex, oral fixation, size kink (big dick), riding, oral sex (m/f), pet names, body worship, condescension mixed with praise, food play (w/ bday cake), breast/nipple play, hickeys, brief mutual masturbation, voice kink implied, spanking
At first, what Jooyeon liked about you was the fact you never asked any questions.
You were calm in a world where everything around him moved too fast and recklessly. You never challenged his deflections, didn’t pull at the loose ends of his lies… you just accepted what he gave, and never pried, making it easy for him to hide his true colors; to tell you just enough to keep you close, and never enough to let you in.
Until somewhere along the line, you started seeing through him. You started asking questions, small and harmless at first. Strangely, he didn’t mind it, though. Somehow, you made it seem… not too bad. Not so annoying. You snuck underneath his skin slow and careful, like you were warmth soaking his bones after he’s been freezing cold.
Until you got too close, and he had to pull away before it all crashed down. Before you see his real face.
Now he tells himself that letting you in was a mistake from the start.
Of course detached and casual wouldn’t sit right with you. You’re the kind of person who needs meaning in everything you do. You crave emotional connection, not just sex. You nourish what you care about, gently and faithfully, you believe love can grow strong if it’s watered enough. You believe in things like soulmates and love at first sight. Those stupid books definitely poisoned your head, filling it with the delusion that love has a happy ending. He’s noticed the way you get excited over cheesy metaphors and the meant-to-be tropes. But he knows in real life there’s no neat resolutions. Love isn’t a magical force that heals a corrupted soul. It’s just another thing that eventually breaks you.
What the hell did he think would happen?
Maybe he thought he could handle it, that he could enjoy your softness without giving up his armor. One thing he did not expect to happen, though, now that you’re gone, is everything else to feel either too much, or not enough. He’s not sure which is worse.
Everything tastes overwhelming lately - the lights, the noise, the crowd shouting his name, the empty victories. The adrenaline rushes he used to chase don’t fulfill him like they used to. Winning doesn’t light him up so much anymore. Seeing you before a fight used to be a hit of something powerful that made him even more dangerous in the ring. Your voice, your little smirks, your concern… they all reminded him that he can fight for something, not just against everything.
He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s been questioning his life - the constant warpath he calls a daily routine. For the first time, he’s wondering if maybe there’s something else waiting for him out there. Maybe he keeps missing it because he’s too stuck in this cycle created of old habits…
Or maybe losing you is just messing with his head.
No, he’s fine. It’s better this way, he knows it. In nights like this, he doesn’t have the luxury to dwell, anyway.
He needs to stick to what he’s good at - throwing fists, drinking and waking up next to girls whose names he doesn’t bother remembering. That’s who he’s always been.
“Are you good?”
Jooyeon, recognising Seungmin’s voice, doesn’t look up. He’s busy wrapping his knuckles, pulling the tape tight.
“Yeah, I’m good,” he mutters, voice flat. His hands move on autopilot, precise and practiced, but his mind is somewhere else entirely.
Earlier, he tried really hard to shut out the voices, the ones that have been slipping at all the wrong moments: when he’s drinking, when he’s leaving the bar with a random girl he picked up while drinking, and now… before he steps into the ring.
Whatever. The frustration they pile up inside him doubles his chances to win.
“How do you think it’s gonna go tonight?” Seungmin asks.
Jooyeon shoots him a glance, brow lifting. “You doubting me or something?”
“I don’t doubt your skills,” Seungmin chuckles. “It’s your mind that worries me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jooyeon snorts.
“You’ve been acting off,” his friend says, stepping closer. “You’ve been drinking a lot, sleeping less…”
“I’m fine.” Jooyeon lies with the same ease he loops the wrap around his bruised hand. “Feeling great.”
He tries not to think about you, but he almost called you twice. He almost texted you too. Almost showed up at your door. He even drove by bookstore Pluto last week - not to say hi, just to check if you were there.
You weren’t, and the bookstore wasn’t there either, it’s officially closed for good. Your second home as you liked to call it. The last piece that had tethered him to you disappeared along with it too.
That late afternoon, he sat in his car longer than he should’ve had. He immediately knew that it wasn’t you who had placed the crooked sign CLOSED PERMANENTLY. You’d never tape something so carelessly. Whoever closed the place didn’t care enough to straighten it.
Where are you now? his mind wandered. Are you meeting new people? He pictured you living a life that doesn’t have him in it, and in his mind you were… smiling. You were unburdened.
While his life kept looping in the same brutal circle, you escaped the old patterns. You stepped through the door and left it closed shut behind you - it makes perfect sense that he wasn’t on the other side anymore.
It’s the second time they call for him. Seungmin flicks a look at Jooyeon, half-expecting one of his usual cutting remarks; he is known not just for his good fists, but for his sharp tongue that’s just as merciless. Courtesy has never lasted long in his mouth - before or during a fight.
But Jooyeon doesn’t snap back. He rises in silence. To say Seungmin is surprised would be an understatement.
Jooyeon heads to the narrow stairwell. Heat already emerges from the basement, thick with noise and anticipation. The air reeks of sweat and beer, too many people are pressed way too close in a space not large enough to hold them all.
When he enters, the lights spill over his sharp features; his brown hair is slipped back with a few strands shaping his face. His presence, commanding and effortlessly confident, instantly makes the crowd buzz with agitation.
The bodies are packed tight - it’s a swelling crowd, mixture of regulars and adrenaline junkies hungry for violence. Their roaring seeps through the walls that are scribbled with graffiti from previous fighters. Their hands wave cash at the betting table in the far corner.
Jooyeon’s heartbeat automatically syncs to this noise - a constant clash of insults and laughter that he got used to years ago. His muscle memory takes over, shoulders rolling back as he dissects his opponent with a calm yet sharpening gaze.
He steps through the gate into the chain-link cage, the heavy mesh rattles shut behind him. A haze of cigarette smoke hangs low, curling around the harsh overhead lights. He begins to circle, his movements fluid and predatory, fueled by the rhythmic bass thrumming through the floorboards from the club above. The crowd up there is oblivious, their energy shaking the air as he locks eyes with his target.
His opponent lunges first. But Jooyeon is fast to duck low. In a flash, he aims into the man’s torso, sending him stumbling. The crowd erupts; some in rage, others in satisfaction.
When he steps to the side simultaneously cracking a sharp elbow into his jaw, the impact vibrates up his arm, brutal and satisfying. The man recovers quicker than expected, though. He lands a solid punch to Jooyeon’s shoulder which jolts him, but not enough.
“Good,” Jooyeon grins, shaking it off. “I was starting to get bored.”
If anything, that heightens his greed.
A lot happens in a single second. A slam in the ribs. A strike to the cheekbone. Another and another. The crowd surges toward the chain link, their fingers hooking into the heavy mesh as their voices grow louder in anger.
To Jooyeon, the rhythm comes naturally. His mind is empty. Instead his muscle memory and his intuition work together in carrying him through the violent dance.
He takes a second to wipe the blood from his lip with the back of his hand before planting his feet and driving forward - like that, the man is sent directly into the wires,.
Jooyeon welcomes the advantage. A swift uppercut snaps the target’s head back, and with a final blow - the perfect strike as someone from the crowd shouts - he drops to the concrete floor with a heavy thud.
The booming echo of victory, of Jooyeon’s name, bounces off the painted walls.
He stands there in the center, bloody mouth and feral eyes; glistening chest heaving wildly as sweat rolls down his spine. His knuckles are throbbing beneath their wraps - a nice reminder that he’s alive.
Raw, warm reminder, that he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.
─── ✍︎
The café is quiet enough to talk and loud enough to silence your lingering nerves. A warm beam of afternoon sunlight spills across the table, warming your knuckles as they rest around the glass.
Across from you, Seungmin taps his thumb against his own cup. He clears his throat, his gaze dropping as he temporarily lifts a hand to rub his jaw.
“Look, you don’t need to give me an answer now. Take your time. Besides…” he huffs a dry breath. “We can’t go this week anyway.”
You look up, sensing the shift in his tone. “Why not?” The hesitation in his eyes as they waver for a split second make your stomach twist with worry.
“He took a rough hit in a fight recently. He’s… recovering.”
“Oh my god.” A cold rush spikes through you. “Is he in the hospital? How bad is it?”
“No, no,” Seungmin says quickly, palms open to settle your panic. “He’s at home, resting. Much better than before, I promise. You don’t need to worry.”
But your mind is already racing back to that one midnight phone call - the one neither of you has repeated since. You can still hear his voice, it was quiet, dangerously thin in a way, with a faint heavy slur that you just couldn’t place at the time. You thought he was exhausted. But now the realisation hits. He was bleeding.
He was in pain.
You shove the memory back down before you experience those few minutes all over again.
Then, quitier, Seungmin adds: “Unless you’d prefer to go see him now…”
You let out a shaky breath, half-laugh, half-mortification. “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” you murmur, staring down at your coffee. “He wouldn’t like that.”
“Yeah,” Seungmin agrees simply, “he wouldn’t.” He studies you for a moment, his gaze calm over the rim of his cup as he takes a sip. “Can I ask you something? Why are you doing this? Really?”
The question surely comes unexpected, but it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. Despite knowing Seungmin for such a short time, he’s become the only person you can talk to about this without filtering anything. The bell chimes as a customer enters, a soft breeze drifts through.
“I want to show him that I accept him,” you say, honest. “Exactly as he is. Not the version he thinks he has to be.” Seungmin doesn’t comment. But his silence is inviting, welcoming, his expression softens, polite, and that pushes you forward. “He’s convinced himself that he’s… too much, or that he’s not built for anything good, and he’s wrong.”
He watches you silently for a long second, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, he lets out a weary sigh. “Alright,” he nods. “I’ll take you, but not this week. Not until he’s steady again.”
“Thank you,” you say, a small appreciative smile slowly settling on your face. A feeling of relief crashes over you so sudden and quick it leaves you momentarily lightheaded.
Seungmin leans back and folds his arms with a pensive look, the sunlight catching the lines of his profile. “God, he’s going to kill me for this. But if it actually helps him, then… I guess it’s worth the funeral.”
“I really appreciate your help, Seungmin.”
You catch his expression shifting subtly. His focus darts past you toward the street. He reaches for his drink, eyes narrowing at something outside.
“Is there some kind of event going on over there or something?” he asks, nodding toward the window.
You follow his gaze, turning a little. Your usual café is mid-transformation. Two employees are busy taping pink and red hearts all over the windows. “Singles party,” you tell him. “It’s tonight.”
He lets out a low, amused breath. “At a café?”
“Yeah, they hosted one a while back and it was a success, so…” you shrug casually. “A friend of mine works there. Usually I grab my coffee from him, but he warned me that the decorating process was going to be chaotic. Figured this place would be better for some privacy.”
Your voice remains light, but something tugs in your chest - that faint uncertainty you’ve been carrying around Jiseok for weeks now.
He did warn you about the upcoming chaos. But before that… there was almost nothing. No jokes over the counter. No updates about the love lives of his fellow coworkers. He’s been distant, claiming that he’s always too busy to talk. You’ve replayed many moments in your head, trying to figure out what made him go so quiet, but you can’t pinpoint the thing you did wrong.
“You can come,” you offer lightly. “I’m going to drop by to see how’s he handling everything.”
“Nah,” he waves off the suggestion with a discreet curve on his lips. “I’m good.”
You raise a brow, chuckling. “What, too cool for paper hearts and some mingling?”
“No,” he laughs; the sound is genuine as he rubs the back of his neck, his gaze flicking to the side. “I’m… seeing someone. It’s not official yet. But I’m not interested in meeting anyone else.”
That confession catches you off guard. A sincere warmth blooms in your chest at the sight of his hopeful smile. “Good,” you say, your own lips curving into a joyful look. “You seem happy?”
Seungmin pauses for a heartbeat, then meets your eyes with a newfound clarity. “Yeah. She makes me really happy.”
The place is drowning in pink.
A sea of paper hearts dangles from the ceiling - alongside red cupids, oversized and tiny, shooting arrows in every direction. Glittery banners drape across the beige wall, declaring Love Is In The Air and Love Happens When You Least Expect It in aggressively cheerful lettering. The energy is relatively chill, but still buzzing with the warm thrill of possibillity as upbeat pop music thumps softly through the decorated space.
You slip off your jacket and make your way toward the bar.
Jiseok is behind the counter, focused on lining up shot glasses. His hair falls into his eyes, his shoulders slightly tense, likely dealing with people already yelling drink orders at him.
“Hey,” you greet him, offering a half-smile.
He glances up instantly. For a split, split second, he brightens - and you catch a glimpse of the old Kwak Jiseok, the one who always greeted you with a beaming grin and a latte in hand. But then he settles back into something reserved. The stiffness is subtle, but impossible for you to not notice it.
“Hey.” he echoes, voice light and careful. “You made it.”
“Maybe the first party wasn’t so bad,” you joke, though the distance between you feels like a physical thing. When the corner of his mouth slightly curves upwards, you take advantage of the moment: “Do you have a minute?”
He wipes his hands on a towel, hesitant for a second. “Yeah, uhm… Let me finish this tray. You can sit over there by the window,” he tilts his chin toward a small round top that hasn’t been claimed by singles yet. “It will be gone any minute now, so move fast.”
You slip away, weaving through glittering hearts and chattering strangers, then sink into the chair.
Out of habit, you fish out your phone. However, you open Instagram with purpose. Ignoring the flood of cat reels and book memes, you hit the search bar. Of course, his name is already there, leading to the private account that might be his. You don’t know for certain, you never got the chance to ask.
Still the same blurry photo that’s too grainy to tell what it is. Still no bio. The only change is that two posts has turned into three posts.
You press your thumb against the screen as if you can magically force the images to load. You want to call him. You want to hear his voice. You need to know how bad it was. If he’s sleeping, if he’s eating… If he’s—
“Hey.”
Jiseok’s voice snaps you out of the spiral.
You place the phone aside as he sets two cold sodas on the table before pulling out the opposite chair. His smile is small and polite rather than familiar. As he drops down with a heavy sigh, you realise how long it’s really been since the two of you had a real conversation.
He twists off the caps one after another. The fizz hisses, rising small bubbles that tickle your nose when you take a sip.
“Thanks,” you smile.
You catch the way he shifts the moment your focus settles on him; how his hands brace against the edge of the table as he leans back, like he needs something solid beneath him. He looks different.
“So,” he aims for a casual tone, but there’s an unfamiliar weight to it; one he’s never carried before. “How did that job interview go? The publishing house, right?”
“Oh.” You pause. The excitement rises anyway, though, it’s impossible to hold down. It’s like a soda fizzing up too quickly and a grin blooms on your lips. “It went… really well, actually. I start on Monday.”
“Wait, what?” his brows shoot up; whatever tension he was carrying, now it finally snaps. “That’s huge! Congrats!” he raises his soda. “I’ll drink to that.”
You clink your can against his, the soft metallic sound seals something small and good between you.
He takes a longer sip, then leans forward, elbows planted on the table. There’s no attempt to hide it anymore, his attention is entirely yours. “So… you’re really doing this.” his eyes search yours, curious and careful. “First day at a dream job. Are you nervous?”
His voice dips on the last word, like he’s trying not to scare you with too much attention or something.
“A little,” you admit, a light chuckle easing your shoulders. “But mostly just ready. You know how much I loved the bookstore, but… this is what I’ve been waiting for.”
Jiseok nods slowly. Something in his expression softens. “You deserve it.” He says, and it doesn’t sound like empty encouragement for the sake of it. More like a fact he’s turned over in his head and decided to stand by.
You almost ask him about all the things that have been eating you. Almost. But tonight isn’t the night. So, holding onto your soda, you choose to stick to this moment instead. “Thanks, Jiseok. That means a lot.”
He glances down, then back up, a grin easing its way onto his face. “Just promise me you’ll actually celebrate,” he says. “No staying in with books, or whatever other boring stuff you do for fun. Deal?”
You laugh; the knot in your chest loosening completely. “Deal. I promise.”
Jiseok leans back, more relaxed now. “Good,” he replies. “When someone is actually happy… it rubs off on the rest of us, you know.”
You hold his gaze for a second longer, letting the warmth of that idea settle. You open your mouth, just about to ask how he’s been doing lately but the question dies on your tongue as his entire expression snaps. His eyes widen in sudden alarm, his posture going instantly rigid as if a wire just pulled tight through his spine.
“Fuck,” he hisses. He straightens in a way that’s just pure, bracing tension. Fear, almost. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Your smile vanishes. “What? What happened?”
He doesn’t look at you. His big eyes remain locked over your shoulder, wide and unblinking, as if a horror movie is playing behind you. “My ex-girlfriend just walked in.” His voice drops to a tense whisper.
His ex?!
“Does she know you work here?”
Finally, he drags his gaze back to you, his features twisting in a grimace. “No idea. Not from me, that’s for sure. We haven’t spoken in… God, two years.” He lets out a stressed exhale, shifting uncomfortably in his seat like he’s trapped. “I really can’t do this right now.”
You huff a soft laugh , leaning in to catch his eye. “Hey, it was bound to happen eventually. And honestly? You’ve got a full bar and a line of people waiting to get tipsy on pink cocktails. It’s the perfect distraction. Just… breathe.”
Your words earn a reluctant, shaky laugh from him. “Thanks,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I needed that.”
You tilt your head, voice gentler now. “Why did you two break up? If it’s okay to ask.”
His shoulders sag at the question. “She said it wasn’t working. Or, in other words, she found someone better.”
You snort softly, lifting brows in a challenge. “If he were so much better, she wouldn’t be at a singles party, would she?”
That does it. His mouth twitches into a real, wide smile, the kind that makes his eyes glint even brighter. He taps the table twice in appreciation before pushing to his feet, the rigid tension in his shoulders finally loosening.
“You’re something else,” he laughs.
You watch him walk off back to the bar with a noticeably steadier posture. After all, you’re glad you decided to come tonight.
─── ✍︎ two weeks later
The club is suffocating. A suffocating blend of neon heat and bass that vibrates deep inside your ribs, continuously hitting you like a physical weight. Strobing lights slice through the darkness, sharp and disorienting, you don’t know in which direction to look first.
Seungmin keeps you close as you weave your way through the crowd, hand hovering just inches from the small of your back, guiding you without breaking your personal space. He keeps glancing at you as fleeting flashes shoot at your face, searching your eyes for a sign to turn back.
Such sign never comes, and eventually he leans closer:
“So, this is where Jooyeon works,” he shouts over the roar, gesturing toward the long, mahogany stretch of the bar bathed in a red glow. “Up there mostly.”
A hesitant, dry chuckle escapes him, but it barely carries over the music. “But sometimes… he’s down here.”
He pushes open a heavy steel door you didn’t even notice, tucked into the shadows. Your eyes drop to a staircase that descends into something darker, smelling of damp concrete.
“Careful,” he warns, taking the first few steps.
You follow, and the air immediately shifts as much bigger primal noise rushes up to meet you. There’s aggressive shouting, and stale, heavy air with lingering scent of cigarettes you can almost taste in your mouth. And a raw heat of a hundred bodies packed into a confined space.
When you reach the bottom of the stairs, the room opens into a basement centered around a brutal, floor to ceiling chain-link cage. The mesh rattles loudly as the bodies slam against it.
“Looks like we’re right on time,” Seungmin murmurs, voice tighter.
A man with a megaphone appears, but you can’t tell from where exactly. The spotlight over the center is nearly blinding.
“He’s back for the kill, everybody,” his booming voice overpowers the feverish roar. “Give it up for Jooyeon!”
The crowd erupts into a feral chant.
He steps out of the shadows, looking completely unreachable, lethal. Watching him slide his mouthguard into place, you can’t deny how painfully well he fits into this vicious atmosphere. His bare chest rises and falls with a cold, calculated focus while the bold lights throw sharp shadows over his handsome face. There’s an undeniable sense of belonging in the way he moves; as brutal as this secret world is, it fits him in some kind of twisted, perfect way.
Though your stomach twists at the sight, at the sound of so much anger pulsing in your ears, you can’t unsee that magnetic part of him; he holds the entire room in his fist and he knows it.
The crowd roars, faltering your restless thoughts. Men begin to chant his name in a rhythmic snarl as he counters his opponent’s first move with a fierce ease. You barely keep up with their speed; the violence becomes a blur, sending cold shivers down your spine despite the humid air clinging to your neck. Inside you, an unsteady tension coils tighter with every next strike.
Until Jooyeon’s gaze snaps toward the stairs.
For a split second, he sees you. His eyes go wide with something between panic and disbelief that nearly masks his adrenaline fueled rage. In that single split second, he’s exposed… vulnerable in the one place he’s never allowed himself to be.
His opponent senses the hesitation and determinedly lunges his way. The sound is sickening. A dull thud echoes against the chain ink.
Your exterior, so out of place, completely cracks. Your eyes snap shut. “I’ll wait outside,” you stammer, though the noise nearly drowns you out before the words even leave your lips.
He’s the one who took the hit, but it feels like you’re the one struggling to breathe.
The brawl follows you up the stairs - every shout, every blow echoes inside your skull. When you push through the door and step into the night, the air cools your lungs but not enough.
Not even a minute later, Seungmin appears. At first he doesn’t say anything; he clearly doesn’t know what words to use, or how much it is even appropriate for him to say right now. He just stands there, looking back and forth between you, hands buried in his pockets.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs eventually. “It’s rough in there… sometimes brutal. It takes some time to get used to it.”
“What if I can’t get used to it, though?”
Seungmin’s eyes drop to his feet; they hold a quiet concern he doesn’t really want to draw attention to.
Now, both of you are silent again, just staring at the cracked pavement.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “But I do know this…” slowly, he turns to face you with quiet certainty. “I’ve never seen Jooyeon care about anyone before. Not the way he cares about you.”
Instead of your pulse easing at his words, it spikes. A knot of fear curls tightly in your stomach, and a startled laugh escapes you before you can hide it - small, breathy and dangerously hopeful. You want this to be true so badly it feels terrifying.
“He visited you all the time when you worked at that bookstore,” he continues more casually now. “You remember that, right? Trust me, Jooyeon never leaves this place unless he’s going home to sleep. And he never talks about you,” he adds after a brief pause. “Not even to me.”
“That sounds…” You frown, blinking in sudden confusion. “Bad.”
“It’s not,” he offers a warm, knowing smile. “It just means he wants to protect you.”
You don’t know what Jooyeon will say when he comes out - you have no idea which version of him will emerge through that door. You don’t know what he will look like - will he be furious? Will he raise his voice, or will he punish you with nothing but that one intense look in his eyes - the familiar stare that empties your lungs? Or maybe it will be something worse… maybe he will choose not to come out and see you at all.
Before you can even begin to process Seungmin’s words, the door bursts open, so hard it ricochets off the brick wall.
Jooyeon storms out like something just snapped off its leash, his chest heaving with frantic breaths. The cold air hits him but he doesn’t seem to feel it. He reaches up and yanks the hair tie from the messy knot he had his hair in for the fight. The dark strands spill down around his face, masking some of the tension in his features.
The nearby streetlights immediately catch his black satin shorts that hang low on his hips, revealing the lean muscles of his legs, the fresh bruising starting to bloom across his thigh.
You hate the sight of blood on him. You hate the dark smudges of violence on his lips; your stomach aches at the way they glint under the yellow light. Yet… you can’t deny the way he still looks impossibly striking.
Each bruise along his ribs is carved out by the sweat shining on his skin, but it’s his glowering eyes that steal your balance. It’s as if an invisible hand closes around your throat the second they lock on you, stopping you from functioning.
“What,” he rasps, low and shredded, “are you doing here?” He stops two steps away from you, as if he can’t stand being any closer. He’s vibrating with tension, fists still half-curled from the fight.
You try to form the words, - you rehearsed this conversation at home more than once - but he’s already shaking his head. Like he regrets even giving you the chance to speak.
His gaze snaps past you, landing on Seungmin who remains standing at an appropriate distance.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” His voice raises with a dangerous, harsh rasp. “Why would you bring her here?”
“Jooyeon—” you start, reaching for his attention.
“You know how—” he bites the rest of the sentence back, a sharp breath escaping his lungs instead.
“I asked him to bring me,” you say, your voice ringing out louder with intent. “It was my idea.”
Jooyeon swings back toward you, eyes dark and storming. For a second there’s silence between you, so taunting it feels like it’s about to swallow the street whole. A car passes on the road, its headlights sweeping across his bruised face in a sudden flash.
“You shouldn’t be here.” He says through gritted teeth; his words are held by the absolute thinnest thread of control.
“Hey, man.” Seungmin steps in carefully, palms raised to soften the tension. “She can decide for herself, come on…”
Jooyeon’s glare cuts to him. He doesn’t even need to speak for his friend to fall quiet again. “I’ll deal with you later,” he mutters before his cold attention returns to you.
Seungmin exhales, recognising the shift, and decides to slowly retreat. “I’ll be inside.”
You barely register his departure. It’s just you and Jooyeon again. He’s furious. And bleeding - again. Breathtaking in a way that makes you want to scream. You can’t take your eyes off this raw, pulsing reality of him.
His brows furrows, the harsh light deepening the sharp edges of his face. “Stop looking at me,” he snaps breathily, his eyes flashing with a defensive anger.
“Jooyeon,…” you whisper; it’s a weak, fragile sound, loaded with hope despite everything that just happened.
“Don’t!” he barks the word, sharp like shattered glass.
You flinch, your chest tightening as you instantly turn toward the empty street, staring at nothing. The silence that forms is suffocating. You can hear him shifting his weight behind you, his breathing ragged. He sounds like he’s cornered by his own overlapping emotions.
“I don’t want to see you here again,” he says and this time, the heat vanishes from his voice, lowering into a toneless command. “I’m serious. Go home.”
“Can I say one thing?”
Jooyeon’s head throbs with the aftermath of the fight; yours aches with the pressure of all the things you want to say. You draw in a breath to find your voice again.
“I came here because I want to understand,” you say quietly, but with a surprising firmness. “The parts of your life you think I’d judge. The parts you’re so convinced would make me run away.”
More silence. It twists something helpless in your chest. When you turn back, you find him collapsed against the brick wall, crouched low with his elbows braced on his knees. His fingers are threaded through his hair, gripping tight, like he’s trying to hold himself together by force.
You step closer, heart stuttering as you squat down in front of him. You search for his eyes even as he keeps them locked on the pavement. But he refuses to look at you. Gently risking it, you reach out, brushing a strand of hair from his damped forehead; too consumed by the sight of him, you don’t notice the trembling of your hand.
“Come home with me,” you plead. “The fight’s over, right? You don’t have to stay. You can leave with me.”
Up close, you realise how little he’s actually hurt, fortunately. There are no broken bones, no swelling to worry about. Just a split lip and a trail of dark blood staining his chin, with sweat clinging to him like a second skin. The damage isn’t on his face, it’s in the way he won’t look at you.
“I’ll let you pick what we listen to this time,” you force a crooked half-smile, but your lips start to tremble.
“I’m calling you a cab.” His voice is final - the kind of tone that leaves no room for objections. “Give me your phone.”
“I’m here to make an effort, Jooyeon. I’m not just going to leave you like this.”
“This is not a place for you!” He erupts. “What part of this don’t you understand?!” He is practically radiating heat, his entire body wound tight enough to snap, yet you stay rooted right where you are, refusing to back down from his fury.
For a second, he really looks like he might fracture under the weight of it all. Or explode under the unfamiliar glow of your eyes - where pain and longing burn together like one. There’s something in the way he watches you… like he might grab your wrist and drag you out into the street, shove you in the first cab that slows down. Or pull you into him and kiss you.
He leans in slightly, his face stopping just inches from yours. “Keep looking at me,” he hisses, his voice dropping in a predatory rumble. His hand lifts to grip your jaw, his fingers rough and unyielding against your skin. “Look at me closely. Is this what you wanted to see? Does this fit into your perfect little fantasy?”
“You really expect me to see some kind of monster,” you whisper, your voice stable despite the intensity of his grip.
Slowly, you rise and his hand drops. He straightens too, but he doesn’t restore the closeness. The deafening silence lasts for a moment before you finally get the courage to ask:
“Do you really not remember?”
“Remember what?” he mutters; there’s disinterest sharpening his tone.
“That night,” you pick each word carefully, like it might detonate if one of them slips mishandled. “When you called me at two in the morning. You were drunk and asked me to stay on the phone with you.”
He laughs, short and hollow; the sound lands somewhere in your ribs, aching like a bruise you didn’t know you had.
“So? I was wasted. Probably just trying to get you to come over to have sex.”
“No,” you murmur with a slow shake of your head. “You never said anything like that.”
You don’t look away, and you allow the silence to stretch, because you know he hates it - especially when he doesn’t know what to say. His gaze flickers, just for a second, and doubt slips in.
You wonder if he’s lying. You’d like to believe the memory is there, buried under his shame and everything else he refuses to let himself feel.
You want to believe he remembers you reading to him until his breathing evened out. That he remembers falling asleep with your voice in his ear. That he’s just too embarrassed to admit it.
So, you let it go. Instead, you simply say: “I think you were hurt.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?” His voice is quieter now, temporarily stripped of its armor.
“Because I’m giving you a chance to make this right.”
“There’s nothing right about me!” He steps closer, frustration sharpening every line of his face until he looks like he is carved from tension. “How do you not get it? This… u-us…” he stumbles over the word like it’s choking him. “It’s not going to work. Someone fucked up like me doesn’t get to be with a girl like you! That’s not how the world works.” His breath stutters. “Fuck—Why did you even come here for god’s sake?! After all the shit I said that day? How can you look at me right now?”
“I told you already,” you say, your voice starting to shake with the effort to stay composed. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“You should be disgusted,” he mutters. His brows furrow deeply, a brief flicker of confusion slipping into his dark eyes. Then, his voice thickens as he doubles down: “I used you.”
“Maybe,” you admit.
He steps closer. Not abruptly, but slow; slow steps that shorten the space between you, until there’s nowhere left to retreat. Your back meets the cool brick wall. He doesn’t touch you. His presence alone is enough to cage you in, his arms braced on either side - close enough that you can smell sweat and iron along with something familliar that makes your heart clench. The sheer gravity of his presence is meant to make you recoil, to remind you that he belongs to this violent world - and you don’t.
His breath stutters, this time ghosting over your cheek, as his eyes search your face, like he’s trying to memorise it before it’s taken from him.
You lift your hand slowly; the way you’d reach out for something wounded and wild, your fingers hovering for a second before settling against his warm skin. You tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear; an intimate gesture that feels too much to bare. As you allow your fingertips to brush lightly along his cheek, your gaze drifts to his mouth; the split lip still bleeds faintly, because of you.
Jooyeon shuts his eyes, breath drawing in like it hurts. “Don’t do this to yourself…” he murmurs, voice barely there. “Didn’t you tell me once you were a good girl? That you take what you’re given and never ask for more?”
He opens his eyes, letting them flick to your parted lips before stopping on yours. “I believed you. That’s what I liked about you. It made this… easy.”
These words - they are the final cut meant to push you away. But you don’t flinch.
“Just that?” you ask, your low tone matching his. “There’s nothing else you like about me?”
Jooyeon presses his lips together. There’s something he refuses to say crowding behind his teeth.
You lean in, careful. Your lips aim for his, but as always, he’s faster. He turns his head at the last second and your kiss lands against his cheek instead. Soft, devastating. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t face you either. He just stays there, frozen like a statue.
“Do yourself a favour,” his hands curl slightly against the brick wall beside your head. “and just stay away from me.”
“I will.” The words come out quieter, but at least they no longer shake.
You see his jaw pulse - regret or relief, you can’t tell. For a moment, you think he might try to stop you, reach out, or do something. But he remains still and silent.
“Next time you’re drunk and in pain,” you add, forcing yourself to meet his hollow gaze one last time, “call someone else. I’m deleting your number.”
You don’t wait for his reaction. You step past him, and the space between you immediately feels immense. You walk away from the wall, the club, his wounded body… the version of yourself that would have stayed, trying to fix things. You don’t look back. Even as something inside you splinters quietly with every beat of your heart, you keep walking.
On the other hand, Jooyeon stays there, leaning against the wall, wondering why you never asked if he won the fight.
─── ✍︎
It’s your second week at the publishing house, but everything still carries that electrifying newness, like the untouched spine of a new book. Every day, you come here, and for a full hour it feels like you’re dreaming.
Your desk is by the window, there are editorial notes already scattered on it, an open notebook with quickly slanted thoughts and a blinking cursor on your laptop screen. There’s enough proof that this is finally happening - you’re starting to belong here. Or at least, you’re learning how to.
Focus, you command yourself, massaging the tension in your temples. But Jooyeon is there again, drifting through your thoughts like a ghost who refuses to leave. You let out a long breath, pressing your lips together to keep your composure. You’re here to work, to build something of your own, yet the memory of him remains that one line you can’t seem to edit out.
The sudden buzz of your phone breaks the trance at once.
Jiseok: this is too funny not to tell you
Jiseok: i actually talked to my ex at the singles party after you left
Jiseok: turns out she has a boyfriend :D
Jiseok: she was there because her (single) friend didn’t want to go alone
A smile stretches on your face. It feels like things slowly but surely are finally settling back to normal with Jiseok. You open the app, your thumbs flying across the screen.
no way
well… guess the universe wanted to clear the air for you
The typing bubbles dance on the screen immediately, but you’re interrupted before he replies.
“Hey,” a voice says, melodic.
You look up to see a woman from the neighbouring department. Danielle, if you remember correctly. You noticed her on day one; she has a polished, confident posture and even more confident eyes.
“We’re thinking of going out this Friday, a few people from the office,” she says, leaning a hand on the edge of your desk. “Dinner first, then maybe a club if we’re still standing. You should come.”
“Sure,” you smile, “I’d like that.”
She nods with a polite smile, then continues down the row of desks.
As you turn back to your monitor, you feel a lingering attention from across the room. Near the shelves with advance manuscripts, you catch Jiung failing miserably at pretending to be busy.
When your eyes meet, he quickly jolts upright, then lifts a hand in a quiet, almost bashful thumbs-up. His lips move silently, forming a: nice!
You offer a sincere smile in return, and he looks away a second later, lips still curled.
He’s been a constant, gentle presence since your first hour here, offering help whenever you need it. He’s the one who showed you how the coffee machine works. The one who patiently navigated you through the labyrinth of different departments without once making you feel slow or stupid for asking newbie questions.
As outside the near window the city keeps moving, you return quietly to your document, and finally start typing.
Some time later, you push back from your desk and head toward the breakroom, desperate for a second caffeine hit to carry you through the rest of the day. As you wait for your cup to fill, a shadow falls over the counter. It’s Jiung, clutching a stack of manuscripts.
“Refueling?” he asks, voice dropping into an amusing, conspiratiorial whisper.
You tilt your head, a friendly spark in your eyes. “Always. You?”
He nods, a bashful smile tugging at his mouth. “Always.” His gaze flickers to the floor before meeting yours with a sudden, quiet braveness. “So, uh… I overheard Danielle earlier. You’re going? To the club thing?”
“Yeah, I am.” You respond, the warm scent of coffee rising between you. “Are you?”
Jiung lets out a breath that’s half-laugh, half-defeat. “I wasn’t going to. Usually my Friday nights involve gaming… sometimes reading. But…” he shifts the weight of the manuscripts, his ears turning pink. “If you’re going to be there, I can come too.”
“Of course, I would like it if you join.” you beam with delight, picking up your mug. Truthfully, the thought of a crowded club after work makes your own introverted heart sink a little too, but the sight of his nerves makes you want to bridge the gap.
His face lights up, the pink on his ears spreading to his cheeks.
As you walk back to your desk, your phone buzzes in your pocket. You sink into your chair and check your notifications. It’s Jiseok again.
Jiseok: anyway, you celebrating that new job anytime soon or what?
A sudden burst of spontaneity spikes through you, and you type back quickly.
how about tonight?
Jiseok’s reply is almost instant:
Jiseok: name the place and i’m there
You slide the phone in your pocket. Jiung is already halfway to his cubicle, his shoulders a bit tense from balancing the pile of manuscripts.
“Jiung!”
He stops and spins around, the stack of papers wobbling in his arms. His eyes look back at you, glinting curious behind the glasses.
“I think I can use a drink tonight,” you smile, tilting your head playfully. “Does a quick stop with a few of my friends at the pub down the street sound too bad?”
Jiung blinks, clearly caught off guard by the sudden invitation. But then, a slow, genuine smile spreads across his face. The pink in his cheeks deepens from excitement.
“Tonight?” He repeats. “Yeah. No, that doesn’t sound too bad. Not bad at all. I’d… I’d really like that.”
He offers a nod, then turns with a steadier smile on his lips, the manuscripts shifting dangerously against his chest.
You and your best friend are tucked into a corner booth with Jiseok who’s currently invested in the chaotic retelling of her last dating disaster. He’s laughing, leaning back with his beer; exactly the same as he’s always been - cheerful, easygoing and unfiltered. When he notices someone hovering near the edge of your table, he’s the first to wave them over.
“You must be Jiung!” he says brightly, sliding over to make room.
Jiung looks a little like he’s suddenly stepped into another dimension. Without the office lights and piles of paper around him, he looks somehow softer in his dark blue charcoal sweater.
“I am,” he smiles back. “Jiseok?” he asks, voice slightly raised to be heard over the music.
Jiseok nods with a grin, offering a hand. “I’ve heard you’re the one keeping her sane at the new job.”
Jiseok being his usual friendly self visibly brings Jiung relief; his shoulders relax as he takes a seat, realising he won’t be interrogated or anything like that. He catches you watching and gives you a small, private nod - thank you for the invite.
Once all of the glasses hit empty, you slide out of the booth. “I think it’s my turn.”
Your friend is already on her feet, looping her arm through yours. Jiseok and Jiung are in a surprisingly deep debate about a video game you have never heard of.
As soon as you reach the crowded mahogany bar, safely out of earshot, she nudges you with her elbow. “Okay, he is great!” her face lights up with excitment. “You didn’t tell me he’s that cute?”
“He’s my coworker,” you laugh, knowing exactly what’s going through her mind. Ignoring the heat rising in your neck, you try to grab the bartender’s attention.
“Please,” she shakes her head. “He’s crushing on you, hard. It’s written all over those glasses.”
You give the order, then you glance back at the table. Jiung is laughing at something Jiseok says, but it’s like he immediately feels your gaze - his eyes drift toward the bar, searching for you. He offers a shy, fleeting smile before quickly looking back at his hands.
“See!” she squeals under her breath. “Total goner.” Her teasing grin suddenly falters when she catches the look on your face.
You’re silently staring at the counter, your mind drifting somewhere far away from Jiung, from this place. She sighs, her expression softening into something fiercely protective. She reaches out, squeezing your forearm. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking about him.” Her voice loses its usual playful edge. “Aw, babe… he’s not coming back. And it’s for the better.”
You open your mouth, but she’s already on a roll. “He better stay away, because I swear I’ll beat his ass if I catch him on the street!” she declares, eyes flashing with a loyal fire. “I don’t care if he has skills or whatever, I’m taking him down. He doesn’t get to just break your heart and run.”
She shakes her head, physically trying to wave the image of him away. “Look at that guy over there,” she nods toward the booth. “He’s kind, sincere and he’s here.” She picks up two of the drinks. “Don’t let those memories ruin your good night.”
─── ✍︎ friday night
The team dinner flows with shared plates, clinking glasses and an relatively easy conversation. Although, beneath it all, the night carries a strange type of… energy; it’s that mutual awareness that everyone at the table is still half-masked. It’s that awareness only coworkers have: you don’t know their worst parts yet, and they don’t know yours.
Jiung is a few seats away, angled toward you in a subtle way that doesn’t call attention to itself. He draws you into the conversation, always making sure you’re included. He asks what you’ve been reading lately, and you share a few titles, offering glimpses of yourself while still holding back, careful not to overshare, or be too much. After that night out with your best friend and Jiseok, the tentative politeness of coworkers between you and Jiung has vanished. You speak way more freely now; it feels nice getting to know someone new. Your laughter is never forced - you like him.
Jiung clearly feels the spark, too. It’s in the way he watches you, there’s a silent readiness to take things a step further. But he remains cautious, because his intiution picks up on that invisible line you don’t even realise you’ve drawn.
You hesitate. And the kind guy he is - Jiung respects it.
At one moment, Danielle shifts the subject. “My boyfriend is at this club not too far from here. Why don’t we finish the night there?”
A chorus of yeahs and why nots follows.
The walk from the uber to the building feels longer than it actually is. Of all the places. Of all the shiny, famous clubs in the city… why this one?
Every step makes a voice in your head blast louder: Will he be there? And another one pathetically tries to shout over it, unsuccessful: it doesn’t matter.
You meant every word you said in that alleyway. His presence will not change anything.
But by the time you reach the entrance, your stomach has coiled into a tight knot that’s not going away. The bass greets you first, deep, heavy vibrations hit your fluttering chest. And then, through the pulsing crowd, you see him.
He’s behind the bar, moving with a fluid ease under the blinking neon lights. He looks up at exactly the wrong moment. As if you pulled him by an invisible thread. When your eyes collide across the room, it’s like the entire floor tilts beneath your feet. Your heart kicks against your ribs, and a sudden, prickling heat rises to your neck.
The shift on Jooyeon’s face is instantaneous. Surprise? Disbelief? It flickers for a fraction of a second before he slowly leans forward, bracing his hands against the edge of the bar. That familliar mask of indifference he manages so well snaps back into place, but this time, it’s edged with something darker.
You can only imagine the amusement twisting inside him. He was always so sure you didn’t even know places like this existed.
“Drinks?” someone shouts over the music.
You force yourself back into the present, following the group to a table tucked just off the main floor. Its position is almost cruel - you can see the bar perfectly if you let yourself.
And from where he’s standing, Jooyeon can see you, too.
You settle down, determined to not get distracted. This is your first night out with your coworkers. First impressions are important. You can’t be the quiet one, or the strange one, the girl out of place who keeps getting lost in her thoughts instead of having fun.
You laugh at a joke you only half-hear, taking a sip of the drink that burns all the way down, wanting the rhythm of the night carry you.
And you feel it, you know it without having to look. Every time Jooyeon turns to fill a glass or take an order, his gaze inevitably cuts through the crowd to find you. Everything unsaid stretches thin across the distance, overpowering the bass, wrapping tight around your throat.
“You okay?” Jiung leans in, his voice a soft contrast to the noise.
He doesn’t look at the bar where you are; he’s looking only at you. You like how genuine, uncomplicated his concern is.
Jooyeon’s hands move on muscle memory, filling glasses to the right line. He’s supposed to be working, but his attention keeps slipping.
What are you doing? You don’t belong here. Not around this kind of crowd. In his head, he brings back your quiet corner in the bookstore, your soft concentration and worn out jeans. Seeing you here feels like all this time he’s been holding onto a lie. A mirage. It throws him off.
So, he keeps watching without meaning to.
It seems like your laughter is genuine, and when you listen, you really listen - tilting your head as if every person at that table deserves your absolute, undivided attention. And then there’s that guy beside you. He’s sitting too close, his posture so obviously, pathetically trying to claim you.
It’s stupid. Jooyeon knows that. He lost the right to care the day he shut the door to your apartment and never returned.
“Hey, man.”
Jooyeon doesn’t look up, he already knows the voice. This guy has been coming in a lot lately, always fishing for free drinks and acting like they’re old friends.
“Usual,” he says.
Jooyeon finaly glances up. “Sure, but you’re paying tonight.”
The man’s grin falters before quickly reforming. He’s already had a few before arriving here - his eyes are glassy, his speech slurring. “Oh, come on. You know me.”
“That’s exactly why.” Jooyeon’s voice is flat as he slides a clean glass across the counter. “I can’t keep giving you free drinks, man. You need to pay at some point.”
The man murmurs something under his breath, but Jooyeon misses it. Over the man’s shoulder, he sees you taking a selfie with the guy who’s trying too hard. There’s a smile on your lips as you lean in against him.
Jooyeon slides the finished drink across. The man grabs it, downing half of it in one heavy gulp.
“See?” the man flashes another crooked, unsteady grin. “One drink… wasn’t so hard.”
And Jooyeon doesn’t know what it is - maybe it’s this guy who refuses to take no for an answer, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s having a miserable night. Or maybe it’s your unexpected presence. Something inside him cracks.
He braces both hands on the edge of the bar, leaning in. “Listen to me carefully, man.” He says, his voice drop-dead quiet. “You’re paying. Or this is your last night here.”
The man scoffs. Jooyeon, on the other hand, in his head begins counting to ten.
One, two… Just like Seungmin taught him.
“You got a real attitude tonight, kid.” The man barks, leaning over the counter. Five, six… “Did something crawl up your ass, or what?”
That is when the heat floods Jooyeon’s chest, hot and blinding. One moment there’s noise and that guy’s ugly provoking grin, and the next, Jooyeon’s fist connects in a brutal punch. Bone meets bone. The man stumbles backward, crashing into a barstool as blood instantly blooms from his nose. The shock erases the annoying grin off his mouth.
“Jooyeon, stop!” someone shouts.
Hands grab him immediately from behind. A senior staff member wraps an arm around his chest, dragging him back before he can take another step.
He struggles once, his chest heaving until the weight of what he’s done crashes in all at once. All eyes have turned toward the bar.
Jooyeon looks past the chaos, past the staff trying to keep him contained, past the man being helped to his feet.
And there you are - standing halfway out of your chair, your eyes wide. But it’s not fear he sees in them, it’s something far worse. Concern. Pity.
A firm hand squeezes his shoulder, pulling him toward the back. A voice murmurs something about the back room; something about him needing to take a break. He ignores everyone.
The back door clicks shut behind him, cutting off the pounding club music. However, there’s ringing in his ears that becomes obvious outside in the chilly night air. He drags a hand down his face, exhaling a ragged breath as he pulls a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. He lits it, his hand steady.
Staring straight ahead into the dark alley, he takes one long drag, letting the smoke burn its way down his throat before releasing it into the air. Out of nowhere, someone sits down on the crate beside him. He doesn’t look - he’s not interested.
“Hey,” a girl says. Her voice is tired, lacking any flirtation. “You got an extra one?”
Without breaking his gaze from the distance, Jooyeon pulls another cigarette from the pack and holds it out, thumbing his lighter open for her. His jaw is tight, irritated by the intrusion, but too drained to argue.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, leaning in to catch the flame.
For a moment it’s almost peaceful. Then, her phone rings.
She groans, but answers anyway. “What?” A brief pause. “No, I told you. I don’t want this.” She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Look, nothing is ever going to happen between us. Don’t call me anymore.”
Jooyeon exhales through his nose, the smoke curlng around the sound. He cannot bare another second of this. He’s just about to tell her, politely or not, to take her drama somewhere else when she abruptly hangs up.
She slumps forward, elbows on her knees and cigarette dangling between her fingers. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Shitty night, huh?”
“Yeah.” His flat answer better be enough of a sign that he’s not looking for a conversation.
But she doesn’t take the hint.
“I can’t afford a decent apartment,” she starts, the words tumbling out as if they’ve been waiting for an audience. “I hate my job. And the guy I thought I’d see casually - just for fun, to take the edge off, you know - now wants me to meet his mom!” She lets out a humorless laugh. “He called me a bitch when I told him I didn’t want to. Can you believe that?”
Jooyeon keeps his gaze fixed ahead, letting her words pass without judgment.
“What about you?” she asks suddenly, turning to look at him.
He doesn’t answer right away. In the quiet of the alley, he can hear the bass thumping faintly through the brick wall behind them. And behind his eyes, there’s still an image that won’t leave him alone.
“I fucked up the only chance I had with an amazing girl,” he says finally. “And now I miss her.”
The words sit between them, heavy. It’s strange; he doesn’t know how that works, but confessing your deepest secrets to a stranger feels easier than offering them to the people who actually deserve the truth.
That’s all he had to say before crushing the cigarette beneath his foot.
He steps back inside, the noise swallowing him whole the second the door closes. He stops by the narrow employee sink to wash his hands, keeping his eyes down, stubbornly ignoring his own reflection in the mirror as he does so. After he dries his hands, he’s ready to reclaim his post behind the bar, but then, he sees her.
His boss is leaning against the doorway, her lips curved into a sinister smile. She is clearly pleased the space has cleared out and it’s just the two of them all alone.
“You’ve been grumpy lately,” she says with an intrigued tilt of her head. “Where’s that charming smile of yours? The one I like so much?” She forces an artificial pout onto her red lips.
Jooyeon sighs. “I’ve gotta get back to the bar.”
He moves to pass her, but she only shifts closer. The movement brings a wave of her perfume, a scent he never learned to like; it’s way too sweet. She lifts a finger, running it along his cheek, like she’s tracing something she owns.
He doesn’t pull away.
“Stick around after your shift,” she murmurs, her voice dropping to a demanding purr. “I have something to tell you.”
“Do it now,” he shoots back. “I have plans.”
He doesn’t.
She tilts her head, studying his expression as she leans back against the door. “We’re getting married. But that wouldn’t be a problem, would it?”
Jooyeon’s gaze lowers to her chest despite himself - her manicured fingers toy with the zipper of her shirt, just enough to reveal the red lace beneath.
He stands there, looking at her pushed up boobs, now almost completely exposed, and he’s thinking… does she actually believe he ever cared about her relationship with that man?
But back to her question - yes, it would be a problem. Her soon-to-be-husband is the kind of man nobody wants to have beef with; his name alone closes mouths shut around here. He knows exactly what kind of trouble this is, and how hard it would be to crawl back out if a word about him and her ever comes out.
This is it. This is the moment he can step back. He can do the right thing for once.
“No,” he says instead. “I don’t care.”
Her smirk blooms instantly. She unzips the rest of her shirt and lets it drop to the floor before cutting the distance between them. Her hands come up, settling at the back of his neck, pulling him toward her mouth.
“Good,” she purrs. “I’m not ready for this to end.”
Jooyeon doesn’t want this - not anymore. But he kisses her. Not because he feels anything, but because right now, any distraction is better than sitting alone with his thoughts.
His shift ends without any new confrontations. Just the usual wiping down the bar, stacking glasses and clocking out. He leaves through the front exit, jacket pulled tight.
Despite the night cool biting at his skin, he doesn’t take the short way home. Instead, he turns down a side street, then another, following the repetitive route he’s been taking for weeks now. His steps slow when he finally approaches the empty space - it used to be a clothing store, but now it’s just a big, dark rectangle of glass and dust. The sign FOR SELL still hangs in the window.
Jooyeon stops in front of it just like he did last time, pack of cigarettes in hand. He steps closer to look through the glass. There is absolutely nothing left inside, just empty concrete floor and exposed pillars.
Something familiar pulls at him again as he stands in the same spot. There’s a new want gnawing at him lately, quiet but relentless, to build something clean, something stable. On his own.
Watching the open floor, he wishes, stupidly, that it will wait for him a little longer, as if places could choose you back.
He steps back and turns to leave when he stops again. He can’t mistake him - the café guy stands a few meters away, staring down at his phone.
What a shitty night for real, Jooyeon thinks and lights a cigarette.
─── ✍︎
Tonight, you’re in a dress. Nothing fancy, but you made sure it’s not too plain either, you also added a thin silver chain around your neck that catches the light. You don’t have big expectations, but you wanted to put in the effort.
Jiung will be here soon. Your coworker, your guide, and the guy you’ve finally convinced yourself you’re allowed to let into your life.
The doorbell rings and you check the time. There are still thirty minutes. Your heart skips in a sudden beat of surprise. Maybe he got nervous and got a little early by accident; that would be cute.
You open the door and a drift of biting, cold air rushes in.
It’s Jooyeon. He’s leaning heavily against the hallway wall, looking like the wood is the only thing keeping him on his feet. Fresh blood streaks his jawline. His lip is split again, the raw edge weeping red. A darkening purple bloom across his cheekbone.
The way your brows pinch already says enough, though. He looks bad.
“Hey,” he says, his voice carrying a jagged weight that vibrates in the small space. His eyes lift to yours, and he manages a ghost of a smile - a habit of pretending his presence is something normal. But his gaze remains distant, clouded by pain. “Hi, beautiful.”
Your body immediately reacts with instinct surges - are you okay? Come in. Let me help you. Your hands twitch at your side, aching to reach out and steady him.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, and the coldness in your tone costs you more than you let show.
His smile falters, the last bits of light in his eyes dimming. “Can I please come in?”
You don’t move. It’s so difficult not to move toward him, to not pull him into the safety of your home. Behind you, the table is set for two, and the clock is ticking toward a version of your life that doesn’t include blood and bruises.
“You’re bleeding.” You say in a fragile line between anger ans heartbreak.
“I know I don’t deserve it,” he continues, words tumbling messily. “I know. But… I’ll take the couch. I swear. I’m really not in the mood to go home tonight.” He swallows hard, wincing as he parts his bloody lips, voice dropping to a distant whisper. “Please… I just—I want to stay with you.”
You force your gaze down, remembering to breathe. The scent of the sharp blood and something burnt clinging to his jacket fills your lungs.
“Even if there’s a wall between us,” he adds, even quieter. “We don’t have to be in the same room.”
The hallway hums with the distant sound of an elevator, and a siren blocks away as the two of you stand there in agonising silence. Your apartment glows warm and inviting behind you, while the minutes pass steadily toward Jiung’s arrival.
You want to be strong, you want to… but you can’t fight what your heart truly desires.
You step aside, finally meeting his exhausted eyes. “Come in.”
Jooyeon exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the very moment that the door opened. He slips past you carefully, one arm tucked against his ribs. It’s like the apartment registers him immediately - his presence shifts the air; the memories of his last visit make the space feel a little smaller.
“Have you eaten something?” you ask, walking toward the kitchen.
You don’t want to stand close to him just yet. You can’t. He follows you like a wounded animal, collapsing on the first chair he sees.
“Not really,” he murmurs.
“I’ll get you something,” you say, already moving to get the first-aid kit from the cabinet. “I ordered food about fifteen minutes ago.”
You don’t mention that the extra portions were meant for someone else.
Jooyeon doesn’t respond. He silently watches you move with frantic precision, your dress swaying with every step. He leans back slightly, a sharp flash of recognition crossing his face. And then… your phone buzzes. He does not recognise the name on the screen, yet his stomach tightens, so certain, like his entire body knows before his mind is able to catch up.
The dress you’re wearing. The two glasses waiting on the table. The candle burning. The faint, anticipatory neatness of the room.
You have a date.
He reaches for your phone and puts it on mute. Only for the noise in his head to grow louder, making all of his thoughts spiteful.
Just as you unwrap the paper of the sandwiches you ordered, Jiung, hangs up.
“Grilled turkey,” you say, your voice carefully neutral as you slide the plate across the table. You walk back to the fridge. “Would you like mustard on this? Or mayo?”
Jooyeon looks down at the food, then back up at you, his expression unreadable. “Mustard’s fine.”
You return with a small jar of mustard, then set a beer in front of him too. He doesn’t reach for anything, yet.
You don’t drink beer. Why would you keep something you don’t drink in your fridge? Because you were expecting someone who does.
“You got a call,” he says finally, forcing the words out like a courtesy.
You pick up the phone, checking the notification. Your expession softens in something apologetic. “I should call back,” you say. “It’s from work.”
Work. Yeah.
Jooyeon nods, he even smiles a little, as something in him goes cold. He can see it clear as day now - you and that selfie guy from the bar. Work. So, he’s a coworker? He probably knows how to talk about books, Jooyeon can bet. He’s probably the kind of guy who always has something to add when you mention an author you like instead of asking who’s that? He probably doesn’t need to think of jokes to cover up his lack of knowledge.
He can’t stay still. Not when he can make out your voice, low and polite; a small laugh you try to keep contained. It makes him feel sick. He steps out on the small balcony, needing to feel the cold air hit his lungs. He lights up a smoke, his hand still shaking a little, and he stares out at the city.
He leans against the railing, telling himself this is what he asked for. Because it is. This is the wall he wanted to build between you the day you met. He really thought he could live with it; he doesn’t understand what went wrong.
You join Jooyeon a moment later. A cardigan hangs loose over your bare shoulders, sleeves almost swallowing your hands as you pull it tight against the evening chill. You stop beside him, maintaining a careful distance, not too close, but not too far. In the dim light, the shallow cut on his cheek looks like a jagged shadow, and the exhaustion in his eyes is heavy enough to feel like a cold shiver against your skin.
“There was a fire the other day,,” he says suddenly, gaze fixed on the skyline. He lifts a finger towards the buildings flickering in the distance, the city lights shimmering as it moves for two seconds. “Right there. Did you hear about it?”
You blink, caught off guard; not by the news, but by the sharp way the question pulls you out of the careful phrases you’d rehearsed for your conversation. “No,” you admit. “When?”
“In the morning. Around five or six.” He exhales a plume of smoke that vanishes in the cold air. “Just a couple of blocks from here.”
“Oh.” Your gaze drifts over the horizon as you go quiet.
This is what I know how to talk about, Jooyeon thinks, irritation curling inward. Fights. Fires. Damage. Aftermath of damage. Money. More damage.
He hates that he doesn’t have better stories for you - stories that fit the girl in the pretty floral dress.
“Let’s get back inside,” you suggest. “Your sandwich will get cold.”
Jooyeon follows without protest.
You can tell he’s forcing the food down mostly to avoid being rude, not because he has an appetite. A few minutes pass as he eats at the small table in heavy silence. When he pushes the plate away, you finally move in, dragging the near chair closer. You gather the cotton pads, the antiseptic and a clean cloth, then position yourself in front of him.
“Look up,” you whisper.
Jooyeon hesitates, his chin lifting extra slowly. Up close, the damage is more visceral. The antiseptic stings as you dab it against the split in his lip; a careful touch, almost reverent, like you’re afraid of hurting him more. He hisses through his teeth, his hand briefly twitching toward you before he pulls it back; as if he was about to touch a hot stove and burn himself.
“Sorry,” you mutter.
You don’t know what you’re apologising for. The pain? The fact you’re letting him stay? For not letting him come in sooner?
Jooyeon’s eyes drop to your necklace, then flicker back to yours. “He’s late. Your guy.”
You pause just for a second, cotton pad hovering above his cheek. Does he know? A flicker of embarassment rises, though unnecessary. You shouldn’t feel like you’ve done something wrong. You both moved on, haven’t you?
“He’s not my guy,” you say, though it tastes a little bitter. You move the cloth a little higher and he flinches instinctively.
“You should’ve told me,” he says at last, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder. “Whatever you had… you didn’t have to cancel because of me.”
You press gently at his cheekbone, and he lets out a shuddering breath. “You don’t need to worry about that,” you say; tone much lighter than the voices in your head. “Does it hurt?” You ask.
He waits a few seconds, leaning into the touch of the damp fabric, as his eyes flutter shut. “Not anymore,” he rasps. “That call… was that a coworker? From the new job?”
With chest tightening, you nod. “Yeah, I work at a publishing house now.” For some reason it feels strange how much he doesn’t know about what your current life looks like.
You almost freeze when his eyes lock onto yours, dark and searching. The surprise on his face lasts a single second, but you see it. “They’re lucky to have you.”
For the first time since he got here, your heart eases its uneven thudding. All because of his recognition.
“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he adds, voice deepening. You’re so close you can feel the heat radiating off his skin, the faint erratic thrum of his pulse. “For…” he trails off, the apology stretching into everything he doesn’t know how to put into words; into everything he can’t make sense of.
Until it just… ends where it started. Unfinished.
His silence hangs in the air like a suspended breath. For a moment you consider saying a hundred different things to him. However, you decide it’s best to just offer a single word. “Done.” You stand up and gather all the supplies from the table.
You head to your room, choosing to turn on the fairy lights that decorate your window instead of the big light. You pull a blanket from the wardrobe and a pillow from the bed. Before returning to the living area, you quickly smooth the sheets back into place.
“You should take the bed,” you say when you come back, tossing the blanket and pillow on the couch.
Jooyeon shakes his head immediately.
“I fall asleep on the couch all the time anyway,” you reassure him, “I read until my eyes give up, it’s not a problem, really.”
“No, I’m taking the couch. End of story.”
You open your mouth to argue, then close it at the sight of his unwavering expression. “Okay,” you sigh. “Then…” you gesture vaguely toward the bathroom. “If you’d like to shower before sleeping… I think I have a few oversized things that could fit you.”
Instead of waiting for him to agree or disagree, you turn toward your open bedroom. Watching him just stand there with an unreadable expression makes you nervous, and you’d like to keep yourself busy, so you don’t have to look at him, struggling to understand what you see.
You find a worn t-shirt, soft and stretched from too many washes, and a pair of loose shorts that should do for one night. When you return, Jooyeon is undressing. You’ve seen him bruised in different places before. Still, you freeze; it’s not something you can ever get used to. The purple-yellow blooms along his ribs, the fading mark on his shoulder…
“You don’t have to look at them,” he says, quietly but defensive.
“I’m sorry…” your gaze lowers. Finally, you step closer to hand him the clothes. “I can wash yours,” you suggest, noticing that his eyes are back to being avoidant of you again. “I have a dryer. If I put them now, they’ll be done for tomorrow.”
The suggestion follows with silence long enough for you to suddenly feel self-conscious. But then, he looks up from the clothes in his hands, still neatly folded the way you offered them, and something passes through his eyes; something foreign, yet strangely warm enough to ease the bitter feeling in your stomach.
“Okay,” he nods. He doesn’t say anything else as he takes the towel you brought and disappears behind the door. The sound of running water follows him a few seconds later.
You start gathering his clothes, feeling heat everywhere all over you - your neck, your face, your chest where your heart feels heavy and far from steady unlike your hands.
He emerges from the bathroom ten minutes later, steam curling out behind him. His hair is damp, and stray droplets of water still cling to his skin , tracing lines down his neck.
Because the bathroom opens directly into your bedroom, he doesn’t go far; he sinks onto the edge of your bed, his frame slumping from exhaustion - one that feels as much mental as it is physical. The bed is the first thing he can reach, and he sits there, silhouetted in the glow of the vanity mirror nearby. He begins to rub his head with the small towel, the movement mechanical and weary, like it’s the last thing he wants to waste his last bits of energy on.
You watch him silently, how almost peculiar he looks against the soft duvet and the neatness of your room, warmly lit by the tender glow of the fairy lights; the contrast is a stinging reminder of the chaos he carries with him.
Then you move closer, noting the faint flush the steam has left on his cheeks. “Can I?” you ask softly, holding up the bottle of cream. “It will help the bruises fade quicker.”
He shoots you a brief glance, then sets the towel aside in silent permission.
Kneeling beside him, you feel the residual heat radiating from his skin. You squeeze a bit of cream onto your fingers, warming it between your palms before applying it to his shoulder in careful, steady circles. You force yourself to focus on the task - the slide of your hands, the light pressure, the exact amount of friction needed to avoid causing him further pain - because thinking about the man himself right now is harder.
This closeness, this contact… it does something to you. Before, you used to feel reckless when you were with Jooyeon. Now, you don’t feel anything similar to that. You don’t feel hope either. You just feel… sad. Like you’re mourning something or someone who was never yours to begin with.
A long audible sigh escapes him, causing your fingers to slow their pace even more. When his head tilts to the side, seemingly lighter from the sudden relief, you glide your touch toward his neck - gentle, cautious and hyper aware of his reactions. He sits perfectly still beneath your hands, eyes half-lidded, his body surrending its tension with each slow stroke of your fingers.
Without a word, he turns to face you. A single droplet of water falls from his damp hair, landing on the bruised shoulder you’ve just tended to. But in this moment, the world narrows down to his gaze, heavy, fixed entirely on your eyes.
Swallowing, you see a faint crease appear between his brows. You’ve seen that before. And that’s how you know - even the smallest move right now could either fix, or, ruin everything.
But when he leans in, you let him. You let him kiss you. Something inside you whispers don’t; it’s quiet but persistent. Yet, you decide to ignore it.
Too easily, you melt into his touch as he cups the side of your face, gently; a kind of gentleness that almost doesn’t feel right on him. His other hand slides up your thigh, getting lost beneath your skirt. Your skin heats up at the thrill of his calloused fingers, scratching you lightly up and down.
The kiss feels intimate like no other kiss you’ve experienced before; more intimate than cleaning his wounds and seeing him twitch from the pain. It feels deep from long restraint or waiting. And the taste… mint and smoke, so familliar. It scares you just how fast your system remembers the way to open for him like a door, just by a single touch of his, welcoming him entirely like he doesn’t belong anywhere else.
His grip on you slightly tightens, like he can’t help it. Like he needs to hold you there, pressed into him. The pressure snaps you out of the moment.
“We shouldn’t,” you mumble breathlessly.
You can almost feel his speedy pulse where your thumb still presses against his collarbone. Until you pull your hand away too.
“I know,” he mutters, voice low and groggy. “I know.” He repeats, this time sounding more like a failed attempt to convince himself.
Yet, he can’t find the strength to detach from you completely; he roams under your skirt, as if your warmth is a trap he has no desire to escape.
“We can never really stay away from each other, can we?” he murmurs, hooded eyes drifting down to your lap. He doesn’t wait for an answer; he’s talking to himself or the air. His voice slows, his expression tightening as if he’s given himself the chance to finally untangle some of his thoughts. “No matter how much we try we just…”
“Jooyeon, don’t,” you whisper like a plea.
But he is past the point of stopping. “I miss you every day,” he continues, talking like a drunk man who’s drowning in suppressed memories. But he’s completely sober. “I’ll get it if you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either. But I do. It doesn’t matter what I’m doing… you’re just… always there. In my head.”
The air between you thickens, with the kind of weight that only comes when a truth finally swims to the surface. For a moment you try to hold onto your resolve, to remember why you shouldn’t, but his words… so raw and unpolished… they snap the last of your defenses.
You lean into him, your forehead coming to rest against his shoulder, right beside the bruise you were just tending to.
He lets out a jagged exhale, his hand tightening its grip beneath your skirt, pulling you closer until you’re straddling his lap. He doesn’t say it’s okay. He doesn’t promise it’s going to be different from now on, or easy. But when his lips brush yours again, with that earlier softness, you can feel how he’s been starving for this.
And that’s all that matters.
The warmth of his body sneaks through the thin layer of your dress, bringing heat into your stomach, until there’s no time nor space left for logic. Every inch of him beneath you grows, solid; you can feel it trying to press against you even through the thick, cotton fabric.
He hums low and deep, his large palms cupping your ass, gripping the flesh like he’s grounding himself. You haven’t forgotten how exciting it is - to be touched with such hunger, like you’re something rare that’s going to melt away in between his fingers if he’s not fast enough.
Your eyes stay shut at the contact of his lips, your arms locked around his shoulders. Jooyeon’s breath catches and then - a sudden, rasping snap. An unmistakable noise of his fingers ripping your lace panties apart.
You pull back slightly, swallowing as the heat pulses between your thighs. You can feel his gaze inspecting the move of your throat, the heaving of your chest; it’s weary, but still heedful of every flicker of emotion you show.
Can he see beneath the surface, though? Can he feel the deeper intent behind your hands? Does he know how desperate you are to offer him a sanctuary?
“Lay down,” you hear yourself whisper against his mouth. “You need to relax.”
Hesitation crosses Jooyeon’s face, as if he’s sure he must have misheard you. But the doubt lasts only a second. When your fingers press against his chest to guide him back, gentle as always, he lets himself fall into the mattress.
You move on your feet, catching your teared underwear before it drops and leaving it beside him.
Kneeling, you slowly undo his towel, revealing the hard length that was pressing insistently against his abdomen. Your breath slides over his heated skin as you guide your face over it, moving slightly higher to press a small, tender kiss - right beneath his belly button. You offer another one, then a third one, all in the same area on his stomach. You shift toward his left hip, then you travel to his ribs, placing a soft kiss near a fading bruise.
You feel the weight of his eyes, exhausted but sharp, lingering on the top of your head as your soft lips scatter the softest smooches, trying to help him focus on this single, quiet moment.
The relief goes deeper into his bones once you get a hold of him, licking the back of your palm before doing so. He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes fluttering shut as his head sinks into the mattress, the last of the fight finally draining out of him; your fingers squeeze - slightly tentative at first, but after a few more strokes, they find their pace.
His left hand forms a fist around your sheets, the other one finds your teared panties. “You’re so good to me,” he murmurs, not opening his eyes. The only movements come from his breathing that’s picking up, the jumping of his adam’s apple. “Baby…”
You swallow at this new, vulnerable side of him, unfolding like nothing you’ve ever seen before - all from your touch. It’s jarring… the man who is always on guard, in control, always watching for the next move, finally chooses to be blind and raw in your presence.
“Shh,” you soothe him, thumb swiping to catch the transparent precum leaking down the side of his length. You smear it all over the head; slow, measured motions. “You don’t need to say anything right now.”
Jooyeon shudders, his back temporarily arching off the bed. His fingers noticeably tighten around the black lace as he brings his hand to his face, rough knuckles brushing against his lips; they part wider when your tongue traces him from base to top before the warmth of your mouth envelops half of him a moment later. His teeth graze his knuckles as he moans - an unfamilliar, mellow sound.
The pleasure flows, invading his veins in steady waves as you go lower, spit dripping down every inch. It overpowers the pain, the anxiety and anger.
Then, you slide back to the tip extra slowly, like you have all the time in the world, sucking tenderly before detaching, your sloppy fist still working around the base. Jooyeon’s fist pressed against his mouth eases only a little bit after your touch vanishes; his other one releases the cotton fabric slowly.
When his eyes flutter open, you’re already adjusted over his lap again, lifting your skirt just enough to take him in your palm. You take a moment to massage your clit with a few grinding motions, up and down, smearing the moisture that’s coating every inch of his. Gaze locked onto the way his crude expression softens in bliss, you guide him to your entrance, then slowly sink down.
You remember the sensation - just how overwhelming he can feel at first. It’s not a feeling you’ll get used to easily. Your jaw goes slack, a silent moan threatening to come out.
He immediately reaches for your waist, but you softly stop him before he can even touch you. “Let me,” you whisper. It’s not a command, yet his hands retrieve to where they were. “Just stay like this for me a little bit.”
You let a few seconds pass, letting him feel every pulse and throb of your walls, tight and excited to welcome him. When you start to move, you move slow and sensual. You want to roll your hips erotically, but you’re also cautious not to overwhelm him too quickly.
You leave your dress to fall loose, gently planting your palms against his stomach instead of bothering to hold it up; the flowy fabric brushing his skin with every motion.
From that moment, the pleasure only rises, and Jooyeon’s mouth remains permanently open. The breaths escaping him are heavy, shallow and deep.
Soon, both of you begin moaning around the same time. You - steadily, too focused on keeping the momentum going. He - weak and brittle like you’ve never witnessed him before.
Wet noises emerge beneath your dress as you keep rolling your hips against him, occasionally lifting in the process while your pussy walls tighten from the high pleasure.
“I… ah, f-fuck—“ Jooyeon almost chokes. “Baby… s-slow…” His head presses back into the mattress, the jittery movement revealing his adam’s apple jumping.
“What was that?” You ask quietly, running your nails against his chest, a slow gentle line. “I can’t hear you so well.”
You’re not lying; he talks too lowly, and as if there’s something stuck in his throat that keeps him from speaking clearly. The multiplying moans keep interrupting his speech too.
“I can’t do t-this right now,” he admits, and the frown of his brows turns even sharper. His entire face scrunches before he tries to look at you for the first time in a while. “I won’t last.”
You look down at him - he has stars in his eyes.
“That’s okay,” you whisper, pausing your movements, so you can lean over; be closer to him. “You don’t have to.”
He can’t help but move his hand at the back of your neck to pull you in until there’s no more space between you. His fingers press, firm, desperate till your lips connect.
When your body starts moving again, faster and stronger, ruining the last bits of his composure, he cries out into your mouth… Even then, his hand doesn’t leave you for a second. Even then, he keeps you pressed close.
You wake up around midnight. Not from a nightmare, or because you’re too hot or too cold. No sudden movements or sounds outside on the street jolt you awake. It’s the night itself, you realise eventually. The fact that after everything, Jooyeon is here - he stayed.
Your mind never fully settled, it kept circling even while your body surrendered to sleep. Now it pulls you back to the surface, thoughts spiralling in restless loops you can’t silence. Fragments of the unexpected evening keep replaying without asking permission - from the ring at the door to the akward silence at the table.
Your bedroom is washed in faint blue light from the city outside, shadows stretching long and soft across the ceiling, and you just lay there, suspended between sleep and awareness with his arm draped loosely across your waist.
Suddenly, a vibration hums against the wood of the nightstand, lighting up the darkness with a white glow. It’s his phone. Yours is still forgotten somewhere in the living room.
He doesn’t stir, his breathing remains deep and even. Jooyeon is a heavy sleeper - it’s one of those small things you have learned about him over time; the kind of random details that seem insignificant on the surface, but mean everything to you. Unlocking such quiet glimpses into who he really is always feels like a hard won privilege.
Your eyes linger on the screen curiously. Way too quickly, you begin to line up neat excuses in your head about why you should check the notification. What if it’s urgent? What if someone needs him?
You shift carefully, slow enough not to jostle the bed and glance down. It’s a message from someone with the name Jungsu.
Jungsu: Happy Birthday! An hour late, sorry.
Birthday??? One more message arrives.
Jungsu: I heard what happened. Hope tonight wasn’t too rough.
You look at the date on the screen as if it might make you recall something, but the numbers stay indifferent.
It’s his birthday… and he never said anything.
You let the phone dim on its own, the light fades until the room returns to blue shadows and his quiet breathing. A hollow surprise opens up inside you. Once again, you’re reminded there are entire rooms inside him that you’ve never been invited into.
You turn onto the other side, not being so careful this time. For a second you think he might awake, but he doesn’t. He only shifts beside you slightly, brows creasing before smoothing again.
You study his face in the dark - the fresh bruising, the tired lines even sleep can’t erase.
Happy birthday. The words echo silently in your mind.
You wonder how many people remembered, and how many people congratulated him. You wonder if he spent the evening fighting because he forgot, or because he wanted to forget it’s his birthday. You wonder why the thought of him being alone on a day like this pains you so much - more than anything else that has brought you pain lately.
─── ✍︎
It’s the next day - another day of work, and the familiar soft fatigue of new routines settling onto your shoulders. The publishing house still feels a little unreal at certain hours, most often in the afternoon when you leave to catch the bus home. Today has been busy, but the quiet pride that comes with being trusted with someone else’s words makes that business feel pleasant.
Your keys jingle against the door, and you push it open with your hip, balancing the small cardboard box in your arms. The apartment greets you with its usual comforting stillnes, but as you step inside, a silhoutte on the balcony catches your eye, making your heart skip a jagged beat.
For a second you think you might have hallucinated the morning - when you left the extra key on the table with a small note lock up when you go. You assumed that by the time you returned, Jooyeon would be gone. You had already rehearsed your lonely return; the empty rooms, the echo of his absence, eating this cake alone while waiting for a “i’m busy” text to arrive.
You walk to the balcony, unsure what to expect next. Certainly, you don’t expect to see him sitting on the narrow balcony chair, one ankle hooked over the other knee, and a book in hand - one of the many stacked unevenly beside the couch. It looks like he isn’t just skimming. His brows are knitted in concentration and the ash on his forgotten cigarette has grown dangerously long, dangling over the railing; it’s going to crumble into the breeze any moment.
The sight steals any words from your mouth. When he finally senses you and looks up, the sudden flicker of surprise in his dark eyes makes it impossible to speak.
“Hey,” he says, voice raspy and low from hours of silence. He looks down at the book, a rare, sheepish shadow crossing his face. “Uhm… hope you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” you manage, shifting the box; the physical proof of a hope you hadn’t dared to admit.
“Oh… yeah.” He clears his throat, closing the book, slowly, like he needs a few more seconds to search for proper words. “Sorry about that. I just… I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”
“You don’t need to apologise,” you smile. “Do you want to come inside? Have you had any coffee?”
“No, actually. I could have a cup.”
He stands and follows you in, moving with a slight stiffness, dressed in his freshly washed clothes. He settles onto the same chair where, only last night you had carefully cleaned his wounds. When the coffee machine starts hissing and popping, the moment suddenly feels both fragile and profound. Domestic.
You set the steaming mug in front of him. He murmurs a quiet thanks, lifting his gaze to track your movements.
“I have something for you,” you say softly.
His expression shifts to a perplexed look, his dark brows knitting together as the soft sunlight shines over his bruised cheekbone.
You slide the cardboard box across the table. With careful, steady fingers, you peel back the flaps, revealing a small but perfect strawberry vanilla cake. The light coming from the near window catches the gloss of the frosting.
“Happy belated birthday,” you whisper.
The silence that follows is like a missing echo. Jooyeon’s eyes narrow as he stares at the cake for a long moment, completely wordless from his bewilderment. His throat moves once, his hands twitching on the wooden table as if he wants to reach out but can’t remember how. There’s a visible war unfolding in his eyes; gratitude clashing with the urge to pull away and run.
“How did you know?” he asks, keeping his gaze fixed on the icing, saying happy birthday.
You feel a flush creep up your neck and you nervously shift on your feet. You are aware that this might piss him off, but as scary as his anger is, the thought of hiding it feels worse.
“I… I saw a message on your phone last night,” you admit. Your next words tumble out in an awkward rush. “I wasn’t snooping, I promise. It was just sitting there on my nightstand, and… I couldn’t fall asleep when the screen lit up. I’d never go through your stuff. I just saw it.”
He goes quiet again, a neutral expression that makes the air shift. Before you can even offer him a fork, he stands up abruptly.
“I have to go,” he says, his voice now distant. He reaches for his jacket mainly to escape your eyes. “I just remembered I’ve got an early shift today. We’re short staffed. Thanks, though. It looks… good.”
He doesn’t wait for you to say anything, he’s already moving toward the hallway. His movements are suddenly jagged but efficient, as if he’s trying to outrun the vulnerability of the moment you had. The shared coffee. The cake. The fact you learned something about him. Clearly, it’s all too much.
“Jooyeon?” you call out, voice small due to his sudden departure.
He pauses, hand reaching for the doorknob. His shoulders are pulled tight as he turns.
“You can drop by after your shift tonight?” you offer, your heart hammering from the hopeful question, and all the possible answers he can give. “For the cake? It’ll still be here.”
You can see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the internal struggle he’s having with such simple invitation. When he speaks, his voice is flat; there’s no longer from the raspy wamrth it had on the balcony. “It’d be too late,” he says. “I’ll be finishing up in the middle of the night. Don’t wait up.”
The lock clicks into place before you can tell him that you wouldn’t mind the hour. You’re left standing in the kitchen with a birthday cake, too large for one person, and two steaming mugs with coffee.
The clock on the microwave shows 2:42 AM when the doorbell rings. You’re curled in your bed, in your oversized pajamas, glasses sliding down your nose as you lose yourself in the final act of a movie you’ve already seen years ago.
Could it be him? There isn’t anyone else who could be visiting you at this hour. You pull the door open, and it is him - slightly disheveled, with his leather jacket unzipped, and brown hair messy from the blowing wind. He looks like a man who’s been in a rush on his way here. His eyes track over you, lingering on the frames of your glasses.
“You’re awake,” he murmurs; the low, gravelly undertone cutting softly through the silent hallway.
“I thought you said it’d be too late,” you breathe, stepping back to let him in.
The familiar tobacco trails after him as he steps inside. He watches you shut the door, his gaze intense and unreadable as it slips to the soft fabric of your sleepwear.
“It is late, why aren’t you sleeping?”
“I’m watching an interesting movie,” you respond with a small shrug, feeling a bit self-conscious as you adjust your glasses. You would’ve picked a less worn out pajamas if you’d known he was going to show up. “And it’s Friday anyway. I don’t have to be up early tomorrow.”
Jooyeon stares at you, his guard visibly crumbling as you get closer. You look gentle, and approachable in a way that terrifies and draws him in all at once. You look beautiful, though he’d probably sooner choke than admit it out loud - especially after doing something he said he wouldn’t do.
He breaks the tension by clearing his throat and looking away. His gaze lands on the kitchen counter and he walks over to pick up the cardboard box.
“So,” he looks back at you with a half-smirk, “are we going to cut this thing?”
You reach out for a drawer and pull out a single, slender candle; your excitment is bubbling over as you press it into the center of the frosting. It sits perfectly atop the simple vanilla cake, nestled between a ring of fresh, glossy strawberries. When you light it up, the tiny flame casts a flickering, honey glow over the counter.
“Okay,” you say, voice bright as you carefully take the cake in your hands. “Make a wish,” you smile, a little breathless as you look at him. “And don’t tell me what it is, or it won’t count.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he grins, sticking out his tongue at you teasingly.
You find yourself wishing you could read him like one of your books. You want to know what’s going through his mind in this very moment so badly. Whatever it is, you send a silent plea into the air, hoping whatever secret desire he has, turns true one day.
Jooyeon blows out the candle. Before you can grab a knife, before you can even clap to congratulate him, he leans down and takes a playful, messily oversized bite right out of the side of the cake. His teeth sink straight through the fluffy sponge layer, coming away with a thick smear of white frosting. He chews with a triumphant, boyish smile.
“Okay,” you burst into a surprised laugh, the sound filling the quiet apartment. “No cutting, no plates… we’re just going for it.”
Too busy savoring the sugar, he doesn’t answer immediately. He uses his thumb to swipe a dollop of stray frosting from the corner of his mouth, the movement pulling slightly at the dark bruise painting his cheekbone. He doesn’t seem to notice pain, slowly sucking the sweetness off his finger while his dark eyes never leave yours. A new, lopsided grin breaks across his face - the kind of rare, genuine grin not many get to see.
“Good choice,” he mumbles, his voice thicker with satisfaction. “I might eat the whole thing myself if you’re not fast enough.”
You chuckle, setting the cake down on the counter. A frisky warmth has completely replaced the last bits of lingering tension from earlier, making your heart skip. You can hear him slowly remove his jacket, and tossing it over one of the chairs.
Your eyes quickly lock with his again as he asks: “Wanna taste?” A sly look makes its way on his face.
It’s an invitation that makes your heart thump even faster. It’s not the first time you hear his voice drop into this rumbling challenge, but the sound strips away the last of your breath regardless.
Jooyeon tilts his head slightly, presenting his cheek where a stray smudge of frosting still clings to it. Your lips brush against the cool sweetness on his jaw; meanwhile, the scent of him, a mixture of rain, nicotine and… something uniquely him, greets you.
Two seconds after your tongue makes contact, gathering more of the sugary frosting, his hand finds the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to keep you there. His head turns as he tilts your chin back - to catch your mouth with his, claiming the taste of vanilla and frantic heat.
You sink into him, into the intensity of his lips; they hold unspoken tension that almost makes you dizzy.
The moment doesn’t remain still for long. Groaning low in his throat, he hooks hands under your thighs and swiftly places you on top of the flat surface.
His hands are everywhere - on your waist, trailing up your back, pulling you flush against his chest where pure chaos is stirring up. And yours, shifting back instinctively to find balance, sinks into the cake.
You jump slightly, pulling your hand only to see your fingers, and a good portion of your palm, all plastered in frosting. “Oh my god,” you wheeze, glancing at the ruin of the cake.
Jooyeon pauses, his chest heaving excitedly as he looks down at the mess you made. It makes him chuckle; a low but warm, new sound - so new that for a split second you forget about the ridiculous accident.
“Waste of a good cake,” he murmurs. But he doesn’t look annoyed nor let down. If anything, he looks like he’s genuinely enjoying the chaos.
A smile tugs at your lips; relief and amusement all at once. “You distracted me!” you then shoot at him, an embarrassed giggle escaping you.
Then, you notice it - the glint in his eyes that are permanently fixed on you; it deepens as he finds the zipper of his black cargo pants, pulling at it unrushed.
“Tsk, not my fault you’re clumsy.” The corner of his mouth twitches in a teasing smirk. “I thought a good girl like you would know where to keep her hands.”
His pants and his dark underwear drop to his thighs. Instantly, a dreamy spark forms in your eyes as they start scanning his revealed skin. Your stomach makes a tiny flip at the view of his dick growing harder under the weight of your curious gaze.
An adrenaline spikes in your veins. You can’t tell if it’s the sugar crashing through your system at such a late hour, or the heavy way Jooyeon is looking at you, but a sudden spark of boldness flares up in you. You lower your frosting-stained hand, letting it slip under the elastic of your shorts. You don’t look down, or anywhere else; you keep your eyes on him.
“Here?” you question, soft. Just when you spot your clit.
Jooyeon’s jaw visibly tightens as you take your time with your actions. His gaze clouds over with hunger, slowly alternating up and down - between your beautiful eyes and the bare inviting line of skin exposed just above the hem of your shorts… between your teeth grazing your lip and the hand buried in your underwear.
It’s always like this… whenever you say something remotely provocative in that quiet, tender tone of yours, his brain temporarily shuts down and suddenly the only thing he can do is stare.
Every time.
“Right there,” he manages. His fist wraps around his dick; it’s thickened even more, immediately responding with a twitch the second his fingers close around it. “You know what to do.”
You wet your mouth, tracking a path down his body. It doesn’t take long for his grip to intensify. But the same applies for yours, too.
The nature of this situation makes your skin burn, and yet, you can’t look away. You’re enjoying it more than you’d admit; not that you need to - your speeding fingers already show enough. The frosting that was sticking to them smears all over your folds, leaving dirty stains on your panties.
Jooyeon reaches for the strap around your shoulder, it’s not too tight and he easily tugs it down, freeing your boob. But he doesn’t stop there - he pulls at your top some more, until the other is out too. Fascinated, as if he is seeing your breasts for the first time, he immediately grabs them; large hand, cold and bruised, sending shivers down your spine, switching between your tits, squeezing and jiggling the flesh.
Below, his member leaks with pre-cum, but he doesn’t glance its way. He gets distracted by something else - a thought, spontaneous and silly, that flashes through his mind. It lasts just for a second, but the idea is dirty enough to pique his interest. Something shifts his expression as he decides to completely indulge in it.
Before you can even register the sudden change in his demeanor, Jooyeon sinks his hand directly into the cake, scooping up a messy handful of frosting and crumbs.
His clean hand rests on your thigh while the other smears the thick, sweet hanful of cake over your tits. You gasp at the cool sensation, a vast contrast to the heat that’s swirling in your stomach. Your fingers quickly escape your shorts, but not to stop him - to hold onto the edge of the counter for better control.
The playful glint in Jooyeon’s eyes melts into something captivating as his hand moves left to right, dragging the sticky frosting across your skin without bothering to be precise with it.
Finally, your fingers fly up, burying themselves deep into his hair as he leans down, his mouth brushing against your left boob where the mess is thickest. Then, his tongue swipes, licking away the sweetness with such intensity, you forget how to breathe.
A soft sound of surprise escapes you as your fingers tighten around the dark strands of his hair. His tongue keeps moving, warm and heavy, making the sticky sensation vanish beneath its scorching warmth. Your nipples harden all over again.
“Told you,” he mutters against the moist path between your tits; on his way to shift to your other breast, “that I’m gonna eat you up one day.” The erotic rumble of his voice sends a jolt of heat through your body; you feel it settle low in your tummy.
Soon, his lips find the rest of the smeared dessert. However, not wanting to just leave your left boob alone after all that attention, he lifts a hand and takes your stiff nipple between his fingers.
Your back arches slightly against him, a clear moan crawling out of your throat.
“Sweet,” he murmurs to himself while devouring the mess clinging to you.
Stroke after stroke, his tongue works swiftly, picking up cream in a way that leaves your entire being tingling.
His chest heaves with excitement as he takes his time around your stained nipple, swirling and nipping with teeth until his mouth finally envelops it whole. He sucks with a pleased groan, then tugs hard, eyes flicking upward to see your reaction.
Your entire face contorts in pleasure as his gaze remains upon you, waiting to meet yours. His busy fingers drop the other stiff bud only to start twisting it again. All while his mouth continues lapping, like it insists on consuming every single crumb.
“Jooyeon,” you whine, clinging to him.
Instead of responding, Jooyeon drags his tongue up - towards the column of your throat. He traces the line as you swallow thickly, trembling from the thrill. Now, as he finally slows down for a second, you notice his ragged breathing… how dark the hunger in his eyes actually is.
How strong the heat radiating off your bodies is - the one coming from his mouth, and the one building inside your core.
Without a word, he catches onto your bottom lip and pulls with his teeth; a rushed, harsh gesture that has you fisting on his shirt to bring him closer.
“I can’t just stand here and watch,” he suddenly says, roaming his palms up your body; they are no longer cold, but warm and sticky as they cup your tits to push them together. “Every inch of you makes my mouth water.”
Shivers go down your spine as he buries his face into your neck, peppering the area with hot kisses, biting the sensitive skin there too.
“Then, don’t.” Your words slip almost like a plea, airy and weak. You feel how the massaging motions of his grip ease just enough for his thumbs to slowly brush your hard nipples. “You can do whatever you want to me,” you say, eyes fluttering shut under the control of his eager mouth.
“That’s a dangerous thing to say,” Jooyeon answers against your ear before nipping at it, his voice still heavy with desire, but suddenly grave.
There’s no time to respond - he pulls your shorts and your messy panties, discarding them somewhere on the floor. A confident hold on your thighs parts them wide and next thing you feel is his warm breath fanning your slick folds; your entrance that’s clenching over nothing.
Jooyeon levels his gaze with your heat - you can feel the intensity of it burning through your skin, he is so close - but his mouth shifts to the left, moving across your inner thigh.
He lets out a slow sigh, his nose rubbing against your plush flesh. The familiar scent of you makes him pause and swallow. Is it your smell, or the sight he missed so badly… something causes his fingers to sink deeper into your skin as they keep your legs spread open, knees pushed back.
Or maybe he just expected you to start squirming the moment he sinks his teeth into your skin. The pressure is firm and sudden, landing with a sharp intensity that brings your attention down on the instant. It follows with a shooting thrill as he waits for a second longer, pressing just hard enough to leave an aching heat that tingles against your thigh after he backs away.
But although your breath stutters, your body only subtly twitches, completely surrendering and leaving itself fully to him.
His eyes scan the fresh mark of his teeth, a flare of satisfaction passes through them. Then, he leans back in, dangerously near your slickness, and presses two open mouthed kisses before his mouth returns to the little shape he just carved with his teeth. He gives the spot a soothing smooch. But the tenderness doesn’t last long; with him it never does. His jaw tightens as he begins to nibble on the bruising mark again, slow, rhythmic tension that has you twitch needily against him.
His flat tongue swipes at the sensitised flesh as his dominant hand drops, two of its digits coming in contact with your pussy lips; they effortlessly slide downward, suddenly shiny.
You moan out his name softly, your stomach tensing from the rising rush.
“Mmm, now we’re matching.” Jooyeon drawls as he slowly pulls away, scattering few wet kisses around the bruise. “When did you get so wet, doll?” He separates your folds, his eyes drifting towards them; they take in the sight of the glistening essence, the hypnotising moves of your hole... “She wants it bad.”
Then, he traces it all with his flat tongue; his palm not leaving your thigh, keeping you nicely exposed. Your sweet taste provokes a guttural noise from him as he immediately leans in for another lick, still drooling from his previous feast. There’s a small path of saliva trickling down his chin, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even realise, as he wraps his lips around your clit, sucking like he’s trying to eat it whole.
You squirm on top of the counter, your moisture doubling under the rapid stimulation.
Pleased, Jooyeon detaches to catch his breath. His firm touch glides up and down, then presses against your aroused your clit; the pressure making your toes curl in the air. “The cake tastes way better when it’s mixed with your juices,” he notes, bringing the collected essence to his tongue.
You stare at him with your mouth agape as he sucks on his fingers with slow satisfaction. Even now, you still can’t fully get used to his provocative way of speaking in such moments. His unapologetic confidence always catches you entirely off guard, leaving you so overwhelmed that you feel as if you’ve swallowed your tongue, unable to form a single coherent sentence.
Heat rushes up your neck, forcing you to glance away. “Don’t,” you trail off, a sudden wave of shyness overtaking you.
As always, he is too quick. His fingers slip under your chin, tilting your head back up as he refuses to miss the reaction on your face. Your glasses slightly slip down your nose at the movement.
“Don’t what?” He challenges, quirking an eyebrow with anticipation. “Don’t what, baby?” A slow, creeping smirk appears to match his teasing tone. He enjoys your flustered silence, yet he can’t help but brush his thumb across your lower lip to coax a response out of you.
You swallow, unable to control your excited breathing as his spare hand moves to your heat, reviving the stimulation. He makes sure to move extra slow.
“Nothing,” you stutter, biting your lip as you fail to keep your eyes on his; they dart to his lips, his neck, the messy strands of hair dangling in front of his forehead.
His thumb shifts, pressing firmer to force your mouth open just a fraction. A small, low chuckle escapes him, thoroughly amused by your desperate attempts to stay composed under his scrutiny. “Am I embarrassing you when I talk like that?” he asks.
You shake your head in an unconvinsing response. His thumb is still inside, exploring the slippery side of your cheek.
He laughs aloud this time; a rich sound that lets you know exactly how much you just lied to him. “You’re cute,” he murmurs. Then, as his digit slowly slips out through your lips, the smirk returns with a sharper edge. “But I’d appreaciate it if you don’t interrupt me like that again.”
The playful warning hangs in the air between you as he tightens the grip on your chin. Before you can manage an apology, he is squatting again, mouthing at your cunt.
Your thighs jitter as his tongue drags up, right in between your slick, puffy folds, again and again; the sounds of pure indulgence rumble and vibrate, sending electricity through your system.
The moment your hand sinks into his hair, Jooyeon’s gaze lifts to your face, watching all that coyness vanish.
The hidden side of you - the one kept locked away from the world and saved only for him - surfaces visibly in your features. In your gasping mouth, your furrowing brows, crashing together as if the pleasure is too much for you to bare. Your entire pretty face tightens into a dazed, breathless mask of relish as he keeps himself sealed to you, taking your responses with satisfaction.
Your fingers curl around the roots of his hair, your hold growing stronger the longer his tongue keeps working on you, savoring the exciting taste that has now completely replaced the vanilla frosting. You can feel yourself getting close, just as two of his fingers slip into you, curving deeply through measured motions.
The amazing friction magnifies the pleasure further, the sensations of the swift strokes and his swirling tongue now running through you like shock waves; they make you buck against him, your grip on the marble edge intensifying.
You yield to him until he detaches, lips smeared with the arousal he provoked in you. His fingers pull out only so he can taste you directly from your entrance - it drips right onto his tongue when he sticks it inside.
Your voice grows louder in the kitchen, your orgasm feeling dangerously near. The rush in your lower belly tightens as his thumb finds your clit, rubbing speedily to push you there even quicker; at the same time, his tongue remains attached to your hole, pushing against it messily, as if your taste is intoxicating.
Not a minute later, your expression shifts to a sharp focus, then melts, helpless and completely undone. You tried to let him know you’re going to come, but the only thing that left your mouth was a raw cry.
Jooyeon knew, anyway.
Consuming, heavy satisfaction spreads through your veins. Your whole body shudders on the counter, Jooyeon’s tongue still clinging to you, his breathing only intensifying the warmth between your legs till they shake.
When you finally open your eyes, you see he’s a mess - nose and chin glistening under the light; his scarred lips, too, swollen and slick, with an alluring tint of red. You can’t put it into words, how the chaos only adds to his beauty.
Staring back into your glowing eyes, he straightens, a crooked little smirk spreading across his face. He radiates a subtle pride, but complete satisfaction? Not just yet.
He rolls his tongue inside his mouth, then releases the thick string onto his palm, spreading it along his hard length. Considering how soaked you are, he doesn’t need the extra lubrication to make his way inside you; but he likes the smooth feeling as well as the noise.
His hands settle on your waist, steadying you as every inch slides in effortlesly, causing a whimper of his name to spill from your tongue. Your arousal instantly mixes with his spit, creating a tiny puddle on the marble surface as he picks up a balanced pace - not slow, but not too fast either. It brings immediate pleasure, but it also brings back… memories. It already feels like a lifetime ago when he first claimed you like this in the stockroom of bookstore Pluto.
Whimpering, you peel off your sore palms from the counter and lean back to rest on your elbows. A new, hotter knot is forming in your core, pulsing with every movement. The squelching sounds already fill the space as his thick size stretches you; quickly, the noise rises in volume when he decides to close your legs and bring them together, gaze strictly glued to the arousing view.
“She’s always so loud for me,” he mutters lowly, quietly, so he does not interrupt the squelching. You’re still struggling to adjust, and yet, he can see a new wave of slick going down your skin.
He pulls out, making your jaw sag open, then he teases the flushed head by running it up your slippery folds, smacking it a few times. “Fuck—” the word transforms into a long, pornographic growl as he enters you again.
The angle is more than effective, making your eyes roll back the second his tip hits that special spot. It doesn’t take long before his rhythm increases; one sturdy hand keeping your legs crossed as he starts to glide freely, receiving nothing but the most helpless yet beautiful whines in return.
“Perfect little pussy,” he groans as your continuous sounds spur him on. “So sweet, so pretty… can’t look away.” The rush is fogging up his mind, however, he can’t stop noticing all the little details that make you so sexy, so perfect for him, commanding his eyes to stay completely focused on you. “Shit, I’m so hard. You make my cock so fucking hard, baby… you feel it?”
It’s like your beauty, your whole energy fills the entire room, anchoring his attention despite the frantic rush inside him. Your thighs look impossibly soft, your pussy - gentle, shiny, wrapped around him to perfection. Even your white socks, bunched at your ankles draw his eyes, looking cute and pure against his thoughts.
“And so fuckin’ tight,” his breath stutters as his cock throbs hard against your walls, every drag pulling another wave of pleasure, another moan. “She doesn’t want to let go, huh, doll?”
You can feel your next climax building, low in your stomach, as he maintains the deep, smooth pumps. Every time your bodies meet, he grunts in a way that shows you that he’s getting close too, but he wants to make this last longer.
Your head falls back, your eyes fluttering shut. There’s a dull ache spreading persisently across your spine; it throbs with soreness even as Jooyeon moves with rhythmic ease, keeping an intentional, confident momentum. But you can’t complain; you dismiss the trembling of your leg muscles too. It’s a sweet kind of pain.
As if he felt the throbbing radiating through your skin, Jooyeon puts his motions to a halt, then slowly parts your legs. “Think you can stand on your feet for me?”
You know he can feel, see everything in that moment as he peers into your hazy eyes - the way you flutter around him just by the way he looks at you, the soft little exhale you release at the question. The way you’re somehow always… anticipating the next thing he will ask of you.
His lips curve for a second when you nod, like he already knew the answer. The exhaustion in your muscles make it a challenge to stand up straight, but you don’t need to. Jooyeon’s arm goes around your spine to turn you around. You catch your breath as his hand adjusts your hips toward him with ease, then trail up your back to guide your upper half down.
This time, his fingers press against your sides in an iron grip, the secure hold allowing him to increase the pressure of the way he pushes his cock inside you.
You brace your hands on the counter, a much overwhelming sensation shooting through you as he effortlessly transitions to an urgent rhythm. “God, you’re so wet,” he whispers in awe; the compliment followed by a slap on your ass.
You are. Soon, the arousal starts slowly dripping down your inner thighs, as Jooyeon’s fingers knead at your cheeks, keeping them spread so he can watch his dick disappear within you. He groans, digging his bruising touch into your soft skin; his sounds elevate with a subtle desperate edge, clashing with the claps of your bodies.
“You love this big cock, don’t you?”
A whine escapes your lips, your warm cheek now pressed against the cool marble as you tilt your head to the side. Drool pools at the corner of your mouth, the rush intensifying with every pound of his hips.
“Tell me you love it,” he mutters, reaching for the bunched fabric of your top; his fist grips tightly, demanding a reaction. “Tell me how much you love this fuckin’ cock… Say it.”
“I do,” you whine, unable to focus on anything else, but the fast sliding of his hard length; how full and hot it makes you feel. “I l-love it… love it s-so much.”
You moan louder, gripping the edge of the counter while more warmth spreads across your skin as Jooyeon’s hand lands on your butt with a sharp sting, again and again.
“That’s right,” he drawls, steadying your hips at the perfect angle as your walls start to clamp around him, stronger; the thrill makes his stomach tighten, his voice strain. “You do. I know you do. Fuck—” He tenses, his words fracturing into a ragged whisper.
His voice adds to the heat in your lower tummy, making your whole body pulse.
“Gonna cum on it, baby,” his tone slightly hardens with a desperate force, his movements strengthening; one hand secures your hip as the other crawls up your shoulder blades. “Gonna cum all over my big cock, huh? Shit—Say it. Be a good slut, baby. Say it.”
Your mewls break under the pressure, a harsh smack landing to your ass cheek before you can utter anything.
“I’m cumming,” you whimper, tone close to breaking. “Jooyeon, y-your cock, fuck—please… ‘m cumming!”
As your heartbeat goes wild, suddenly your breathing stops, your mind becomes a blur. The thrilling sensation crashes through you, shattering your voice into a sob; your pussy tightens violently, your thighs shaking out of control.
The euphoria is so strong, you don’t even realise when exactly Jooyeon slips out to release, his free hand pressing your hips against him.
His fist moves fast, and the second his head falls back, his voice rises, blissful - the thrill of his solid balls pressing into your plush ass giving it an exciting vibration - only to gradually fall into something breathless as the last warm drop of his cum settles on your lower back.
─── ✍︎
Jooyeon is driving towards your place. His thumb drums against the wheel in a perfect, unconscious sync with a metal track blasting from the speakers. The rhythm comes naturally to him almost - a giveaway that he’s in a rare, good mood today.
On the passenger seat beside him sits a bouquet of peonies, a brright pop of pink, wrapped in brown paper. The very first flowers he’s ever brought for you; for any woman. And it’s not because there’s an occasion or an apology. He saw them at a stand and thought of you - more specifically, how you look when you wake up in the morning, - so he bought them.
He’s trying. He’s putting in the work to be the man who does things like flowers and chocolates without an occasion. He wants to get better at expressing what he feels inside. To you. He could care less if other people get him or not.
“Hey,” you answer after you pick up his call, your voice dropping quitier.
“I’ll see you in about three minutes,” he says; there’s lightness in his tone you haven’t heard in months. “Two, actually.”
“Uhm, Jooyeon, wait—you can’t come over.” Your words tumble out. “I’m busy.”
There’s a beat of silence. “Busy with what?”
“I’m… I’m with my colleague. We’re finishing up a project,” you murmur, your eyes drifting toward the kitchen where Jiung takes a sip of his tea.
The line stays quiet for a long second, the only sound is the distant hum of the car engine. “Well,” he rasps, “I’m already at the door. Might as well let me in.”
Another silence follows, one that allows him to catch the brief rustle - the curtains? He doesn’t look up to see if you’re checking the window to see if he’s joking. He kills the engine and steps out of the car, grabbing the empty energy drink from the console; it was sitting there, forgotten, for almost a week. He tosses it into the bin as he passes, the well familliar bitter thoughts flickering through his mind.
He hates that he’s aware of himself doing this - dragging out the seconds, stalling before he has to see him in your apartment. He reaches the porch with nothing but his keys in his hand. Then, he knocks twice on the door. Instead of ringing the bell like he always does.
Inside, Jiung looks up from the keyboard of his MacBook, a surprised curve on his lips. “Did you order food?”
Shit. Panic spikes in your chest.
You drop your phone carelessly on the couch, standing there frozen, entirely paralysed by the choice before you.
What do you do first? Do you quickly tell Jiung about Jooyeon - warn him about the storm that’s about to enter the place? Or do you just go ahead and open the door? With every second that ticks by, you can practically feel Jooyeon’s irritation magnifying, intoxicating the air. He’s getting more and more frustrated with every breath you waste, you know it.
“Uhm, no,” you stutter as you walk to the table. “Actually… that’s a friend.”
“Oh?” Jiung exclaims with genuine curiosity. “That’s… nice. I’d love to meet more of your friends.”
He is too kind. It makes the guilt in your stomach twist even harder.
“He’s not…” you try to search for the right words to describe Jooyeon; to encapsulate the heavy, intimidating presence he carries, but the vocabulary just isn’t coming to you. “He’s not like my other friends. Please, just… don’t take anything he says or does personally.”
Jiung blinks, his smile faltering into confusion. “Okay?”
Before he can ask anything, you turn and rush towards the front door. When you open it, you find Jooyeon waiting with one hand against the wall, gaze down.
On the surface, he looks uncomfortably calm when his eyes snap up at you. But his gaze is dangerous, burning while a few messy strands of dark hair sharpen his features even more. His vision flickers past your shoulder, tracking the laptop screen before landing on the male figure.
“Finally,” he mutters, pushing his weight off the wall.
He doesn’t wait to be invited inside. He walks past you, brushing your shoulder as he storms into the apartment without a shred of hesitation.
Upon seeing him, Jiung immediately stands up, adjusting his posture to offer a welcome smile and a handshake.
Jooyeon eyes the extended hand for an agonising second before he finally accepts it. His grip is firm, bordering on a power move. “Jooyeon.” He introduces himself with an unbothered tone; his face remains entirely unsmiling.
Without waiting for Jiung to reply, he pulls a nearby chair. He pulls it with a loud scrape against the floor and sits down comfortably, letting it be known that he’s been here before - that he’s been here first - and leans all the way back into the seat.
“Nice to meet you, Jooyeon.” Jiung nods after clearing his throat, maintaining his composure despite Jooyeon’s cold demeanour. “I’m Jiung.”
He adds that he’s your colleague, but Jooyeon doesn’t even look up at the explanation. He reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulls out his lighter, immediately flicking the lid open and shut, playing with it to keep his fingers busy. His lack of surprise makes it glaringly clear that he already knows exactly who Jiung is.
A heavy silence drops over the small room; the only sound is the maddening snap of the metallic lighter. Click-clack, click-clack. Jiung sits there, looking increasingly uncomfortable as his fingers hover over the keyboard.
Desperate to break the ice, you open your mouth to speak - at the exact same time Jooyeon finally decides to look up.
“Do you want—“
“So,” he interrupts you seamlessly. He snaps the lighter closed one last time. “What’s that project about that keeps you two so busy?”
Jiung is visibly a little intimidated by the sudden interrogation, but he remains polite. He carefully explains the details of the highly anticipated memoir from a world-famous thriller authour. It’s massive. Everyone at the publishing house is racing against the clock to finish the final developmental edits before the legal team finalises the print approval.
You desperately need to escape this. “I’m going to make more tea.” You mutter to no one in particular, retreating to the counter.
You fill the kettle, your ears trying to catch every word from behind you as the noise of the water rises. Jooyeon doesn’t make it easier. He cuts off Jiung with a passive-aggressive comment.
“Must be a huge deal,” he muses, voice dipping with a mocking undertone that makes your stomach drop, “since you felt the need to come all the way over here on a day off.”
Jiung tries to defuse the growing tension. “It’s a pretty brutal deadline with this manuscript,” he explains, trying to sound casual. “But we’re a team after all. Everyone helps out however they can so the global release can go smoothly. Plus, she’s still new to some of the legal print approval formatting, I wanted to make sure she wasn’t having any trouble.”
Jooyeon’s fingers pause on the lighter. A small, unreadable smirk touches his lips. “She’s a quick learner.” His voice is smooth, carrying a double meaning.
You step back into the room. You lock eyes with Jooyeon and deliberately place the steaming mug in front of him with a hard, warning glare. Drop the attitude, it says.
Before he can say anything more, a sharp snap of a laptop closing cuts through. Both of your heads turn toward Jiung - he’s on his feet, sliding his MacBook inside his messenger bag.
“I think we’ve done enough work for today,” he keeps his voice soft and professional. He looks at you with a gentle, reassuring nod. “We’re in a good place with the manuscript. I can handle what’s left from home tonight.”
Jooyeon watches him move, his thumb pressing on the metallic edge of his lighter. He doesn’t say anything, but the rigid line of his shoulders and the possessive glare of his eyes say everything.
Pure unfiltered jealousy. Pride.
Jiung slings his bag over his shoulder and offers you a polite smile on his way out. “See you in the office tomorrow.”
The front door clicks shut and you let out a sigh. Fixing your eyes on Jooyeon, you turn slowly, crossing your arms as you walk balk towards the table. “What was that?” You demand, your voice slightly shaky with adrenaline.
He shrugs casually, turning to finally pick up the cup of tea you made him. He takes a slow sip. “What was what?” His voice slows to that familiar unbothered sound.
“The interrogation? The passive aggressive comments?” You take one more step forward. “You basically forced my guest out of my own home! My colleague!”
Jooyeon sets the mug down and looks up at you, his gaze flashing in mock innocence. “I was just making a conversation,” he replies, leaning against the edge of the table. “What?” He barks at your insistent expression. “I introduced myself. I asked about your work. I was being very friendly.”
Friendly leaves his lips with a dry, mocking edge that makes it sound like a dark joke. There wasn’t a single polite bone in his body during that interaction and he knows it.
You refuse to buy his act. You did once… you are not making that mistake again.
“Friendly?” You repeat, staring him down. “Are you kidding?”
Jooyeon shifts his weight silently, maintaining his defensive walls stay firmly up.
“You can’t keep doing this,” you continue. “You can’t keep treating my friends like they’re a threat to you.”
You turn your back on him, needing to put some physical distance between you before the tension swallows you whole. The sudden movement immediately breaks his calm facade.
“A threat?” He echoes, bitter. His sharp tone drips with offence at your choice of word. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
He erases the space between you in a heartbeat, his stride silent, but almost explosive. Your breath hitches as his frame now completely blocks the rest of the room. Your back hits the solid surface of the wall.
He plants one hand flat, right beside your head, leaning in so close that you feel the furious heat of his breathing.
“I don’t look at a guy like that and see a threat,” his voice drops to a possessive whisper, it vibrates right through you.
Your chest falls and rises faster than it did a moment ago, warming up at the weight of his angry gaze. It almost brushes his as your heart hammers erratically, overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions.
“Then what do you see?” A new wave of irritation flares up. You lift your hands and press them flat against his chest, pushing with all the strength you have. But he doesn’t budge. “Back up!” You snap. “I’m sick of you using your womaniser tactics every time you can’t handle a simple conversation.”
Jooyeon’s eyes darken further as your palms slam against his solid chest one last time. However, a spark of amusement starts dancing in his eyes as he looks down at the frown on your face. He likes it. He likes it when you refuse to let the anger shrink you.
He lets out a low laugh that brushes over your lips. Then, his voice turns into a deep dare: “Calm down, you’re making my dick hard.”
Your eyes snap at him furiously, just for a second, before he finally decides to let you escape. The heavy tension remains unchanged, though.
“You can’t take anything seriously, can you?” You throw at him.
He steps closer again, the shift in his gaze is powerful enough to stop your pacing on the instant. “I was simply reminding you who you belong to,” he says, the quiet tone sending a shiver down your spine.
“Jiung is a friend,” you insist.
“Yeah, like Jiseok was your friend, right?” He retorts, a sarcastic hint bleeding into his tone.
“Why are you bringing up Jiseok?” An old frustration enters your chest.
“Whatever,” he waves a hand as he tries to brush past it. “My point is—“
“No,” you refuse to let him slide. You step right back into his space, refusing to change the subject. “No. Tell me. You told him something, didn’t you? That day at the bookstore. When I heard you raising your voice at him?”
He rolls his eyes, a harsh, defensive sneer twisting his expression before he snaps under your persistent questioning.
“Yeah, I did!” He barks, stepping directly into your face. “I told him to mind his fucking business! Somebody had to. Of course, it couldn’t be you, because you clearly like the attention.”
You stand there, completely stunned. His accusation hits you like a physical blow to the chest. For a moment the room goes entirely silent, only his words echoing in your head, cutting you deep. You can only let out a short, breathless laugh of sheer disbelief.
How could he think something like that?
The explosive frustration drains from Jooyeon’s posture and he shifts his weight, watching the hurt break through your defenses. The satisfaction he felt a moment ago vanishes, replaced by an unfamiliar hesitation. He looks away, then quickly locks his gaze back on you. His tone drops to a strange, almost vulnerable register.
“How come when other guys want to look after you it’s fine,” he asks, his words laced in defensive confusion, “but when I do it, it’s a problem?”
“Because you don’t know what boundaries are,” you answer quietly. “And you’re not protecting me, Jooyeon. You just think you are, but you’re not. You just want to control me.”
He freezes for a moment, your words strike an invisible nerve that stills his posture. Until the dark focus returns in his eyes.
“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?” He murmurs, taking a deliberate step toward you. “Like the smart reader you are.”
You instinctively back up, but your back meets the wall again. He doesn’t stop until you’re trapped against it and his presence dominates all your senses. His hand lifts to rest beside your head.
“You shouldn’t forget that I…” he lowers, his breath hot against your mouth. “I know you too. I know you a little too well.”
Under his heavy demeanor, a wave of well familiar shyness washes over you. You try to glance down, to look anywhere but at the focus in his dark eyes, but his finger instantly tilts your chin back up.
“In fact,” his tone dips, a slight amusement creeping beneath, his compelling eyes holding you captive, gleaming with a sharp hypnotic emotion, “I think I’m the only one who’s seen the real you.”
a.note ! to anyone who still keeps up with this story - thank you! thank you for being patient with me. thank you for supporting my vision from the start. and just thank you for welcoming my imagination in general, for trusting my ideas and letting me share my excitement with you. writing wouldn't be so fun and fulfilling without you, guys! and this story specifically... i've already mentioned countless times how much it means to me, it has been such an escape during two hard periods of my life, and i keep pouring so much of myself in it still to this day - but... you, your comments, reactions and feedback only make it even more important to me! this got a little messy, but i am beyond excited to hit the post button as i write it, so i'm babbling. thank you! my hands are shaking, wow. enjoy!!
> genre | friends to lovers, fluff, smut, pregnancy, the tiniest bit of angst
> warnings | explicit language, MDNI.
> ttots masterlist
19. She will always be tiny for us
The first time you had to be alone with Miseol - for longer than thirty minutes at a time - comes sooner than you expected.
Not that you didn’t know it was coming, you have had access to Minho’s schedule for months now, but it still catches you off guard when you’re in bed the night before he has to actually go to work again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to call my mom?” it’s not the first time that he asks.
“I have to be able to look after her by myself eventually”, is the reply he’s been getting from you.
You have your head resting on his chest and he’s running a hand down your back. Miseol is asleep on the next room and the soft electronic hum of the baby monitor is the only sound besides your own voices.
Minho drops a kiss on the top of your head, “I’ll call every hour”
“I know that you will”
“And I’ll come home straight away once we’re done”
“Never questioned that”
“And if you need anything I can leave early”
“Minho, we’ll be alright”, and at that point you don’t know if you’re comforting him or yourself.
It’s been nice having him by your side for the past two weeks. His parents have come and gone but other than that no one has stopped by to visit yet. Not that they didn’t want to, but your doctor had recommended minimum outside contact for the first month, since Miseol was premature and still recovering from her traumatic birth. You all were, to be honest.
Your friends had called. Your team at work had called. Minho’s managers had called. Everyone had sent gifts and well wishes but, for the most part, it was just the three of you in your little bubble.
The first statement the company released had been well received, with the fans worrying online but a majority wishing Minho to take his time to be with his family. He still had a few schedules ahead before their official vacation time, so he would be going to the company for rehearsals and some recordings over the next couple of days, and then had the comeback showcases and a few full days of music shows.
You were more nervous about the time after the music shows, though, because that’s when the Minho-is-a-father statement would be coming out. The bright side to that is the upcoming couple of months out of the spotlight for the both of you, with the entire team taking time off as well together for once.
The next morning Minho is out before you are awake. You have no ideia how he had gotten up without the sound of an alarm waking you up, but he was magical like that sometimes. His side of the bed is still slightly warm when you roll over though, so you must’ve just missed him. Miseol is still sound asleep when you check the baby monitor, and before getting up you grab your phone to check the time. It’s almost 9AM, probably the latest you’ve been able to sleep in a while. There’s a few texts waiting for you, shining under Minho’s new contact name, changed by himself a few days before.
[8:23AM] lee minho (love of my life): didn’t want to wake you up
[8:23AM] lee minho (love of my life): Bun has been fed and changed before I left
[8:23AM] lee minho (love of my life): let me know when you’re up
[8:24AM] lee minho (love of my life): love you
There was no way he had reached the company yet but you text him anyway.
[8:46AM] y/n: you should’ve said goodbye :(
His reply comes instantly.
[8:46AM] lee minho (love of my life): sorry baby
[8:46AM] lee minho (love of my life): next time Bun has a dirty diaper right before I have to leave I’ll wake you up!!
[8:47AM] y/n: nevermind
[8:47AM] y/n: i love youuuuu
By some sort of miracle, your daughter sleeps through most of the morning and, by the time she finally demands your attention, you had managed to get breakfast and have a shower. You’re just sitting with her on the sofa, your legs pulled up so she can rest in your thighs while facing you. This is your current favorite activity. You could spend hours just staring at her, talking about everything as she babbled back to you. It wouldn’t last long, every time she would start drifting off to sleep, specially after being fed, but you still managed to get a quick little video to send to Minho.
Only you accidentally sent it to the big group chat with all your friends.
[1:12PM] hyunjinnie: cute!!!!!!
[1:12PM] seo changbin: it’s crazy how much she looks like Lino hyung
[1:12PM] kim seungmin: don’t say that to the poor kid
[1:13PM] bora-bora: I think she looks like me :)
[1:13PM] lee minho (love of my life): stop trying to steal my child
yongbok is calling you on facetime
Miseol is still wide awake on your lap so you see no reason to decline the call. The sounds come before the video loads, and you barely have time to lower the volume before a few faces make themselves known.
“Noona, how are you?” Felix is smiling front and center, with both Jisung and Hyunjin hanging from his sides.
“Turn the camera around. I want to see Bun”, Jisung pipes in, moving Felix’s hand so he can take center place, completely cutting Hyunjin from focus.
“Ya! Is that how you greet me?” you fake annoyance but that’s just how Jisung had been since Miseol was born, he couldn’t care less about you or Minho.
“Why am I still seeing your face, show me my baby” he whines and you have time to roll your eyes before double tapping the screen to reveal your sweet babygirl.
Hyunjin takes hold of the phone and seems to walk away just as the image loads for them, Felix and Jisung’s complaints following through the speakers, with the screen now showing just a close up of the dancer’s eyes and forehead, “Aigoo is that the onesie I gifted her?”
You consider lying but ends up telling the truth, knowing full well it will annoy him, “actually, Bora gave her the same one in a smaller size, yours is still too big”
He hangs up on you. Your laugh is loud enough that it startles Miseol a little bit, her eyes growing big on an expression that so closely resembles Minho your heart melts immediately. You coo and bounce your legs so it stops her from crying.
lee minho (love of my life) is calling you on facetime
“Did Hyunjin hang up on Miseol?” his voice is venomous even if you know he’s being playful.
“I think that one was on me”
“Too bad, I’m making him run the chorus by himself until he can do it with his eyes closed and mouth filled with tissues”, he smiles angelically at you, his voice shifting drastically to a sing-song tone, his focus then moving to somewhere over the camera before he flips it so you can see.
Chan is holding Hyunjin by the waste while Changbin holds onto the front of the younger member shirt, on a play-fight you can only assume was instigated by your wonderfully protective baby-daddy.
“Remember you still need him for the comeback”
“Do we though?” Jeongin’s voice comes through first, before the camera is flipped back to reveal him next to Minho, “hi noona, can I see Miseol-ah?”
“See Innie, that’s why you’re my favorite”, you say as you flip the camera to reveal your baby again, this time already fighting to stay awake, you can tell her eyelids are growing heavy.
“Hi darling”, Minho coos, bringing his face closer to the younger member as well, and you can hear the commotion in the background as more members shift closer. One by one they give space to the next, so everyone can see and say hi to your daughter.
“She looks bigger”, Chan says, in awe.
“Don’t say that”, you pout even if they can’t see you. You do feel like she’s growing too fast already, time slipping you by.
“She will always be tiny for us”, Minho corrects his only hyung, to which Chan replies by just squeezing your boyfriend’s shoulder.
“I can’t wait to have one”, it’s Changbin’s time to pop up.
“And just how would you do that?” Jisung says from somewhere you can’t see, his voice teasing at the idea of Changbin being the one member perpetually single amongst the group.
“Look at that, he gets himself a girlfriend and suddenly he’s brave”, Minho comes to Changbin’s defense and you laugh alongside them, Jisung’s unintelligible whines sounding further away.
“Is he still saying they’re not together?” you ask, happy to have some gossip that doesn’t revolve around yourself.
Jisung had been secretly seeing someone for a while, the only proof being evidence left behind at the dorms. Minho was quick to tease and even quicker to spread the word. Specially during those first few days after Miseol’s birth, when everyone could use a little teasing to lighten the mood, the entire group had attached to the idea of Jisung finally commiting to someone, even if the boy had not admitted so himself yet.
Changbin, still perched on Minho’s shoulder to see the phone, is about to say something when a manager calls out that they should resume practice if they want to leave on time. A couple of hands wave at the camera but you can’t really make out who’s, and Changbin makes a kissy face to your baby before also slipping away, leaving just you and Minho again.
“Appa will be home soon Bunny, be good to mommy, okay?” Miseol is almost fully asleep and Minho lowers his voice to say it. But to no avail, there’s an echo of his words already going around the room as the rest of the boys tease his dad voice - something you have just recently realized he developed.
He rolls his eyes and step outside as you flip the camera back to you.
“Are you doing okay?” he just wants to make sure, one more time.
“I took a shower and drank two full cups of coffee before she even woke up”, you gloat, “I’m doing wonderful.”
“Oh so you get the extra sleep and the caffeine and I get the dirty diapers?”, one of his eyebrows flicks up in mock annoyance.
“You had your time being her favorite, now it’s my turn”, you double down on the teasing.
“I’ll remember that when she cries in the middle of the night”, but you know those are just empty words, so you smile at him, no malice.
“I love you, you know?” and he must be able to tell you are no longer joking as his face melts into that look he’s been giving you more and more lately.
“I love you too”, he whispers, probably anticipating what his rehearsal would look like if they boys heard him, “I’ll be home soon, call me when she wakes up again?”
“I will” and you hang up, happy to know that, for the next few hours, Minho will be back to doing what he’s best at.
—
The boys were about to go on stage. That’s not what was scary to Minho. He’s done that hundreds of times - and loved every single one of those. But that time he knew that, after the showcase, his entire career would be at stake.
He’s not that naive. He knew what the statement could mean for him and his team. To you, to his daughter.
But he goes through with it anyway. He’d have roughly a week between the recording of the showcase and the video coming out. Tonight the company would announce their vacation, alongside with 3racha’s unit album that was already deep into production - to soften the blow.
And then, in a week, the same day the comeback videos start coming out, they’d also drop the announcement of Miseol’s existence.
The guys had been so supportive about it, it almost overwhelmed Minho. The company still had their concerns but couldn’t really push against the united front of their artists, so it was all going as smoothly as possible.
It didn’t make it any less scary.
When they finally go on stage they have a bit of time to joke around with the Stays that had been waiting since before dawn, while the crew does camera and light adjustments. Minho does his best to act normal. He teases the fans, threatens his team mates, give away little choreography spoilers - even if it doesn’t mean much, they’re about to see the whole thing for the first time anyway.
And then they get into position. They run through the recording once, twice, three times. They take a break, they eat, they go again. It’s all routine, all part of what he has been so used to these past few years of his life.
But then it’s time to leave the stage, and Minho has no idea what his life will look like the next time he steps on it.
And it is scary but also, maybe, just a tiny bit exciting.
Miseol will be almost six months old by the time he performs in front of an audience again. He might even be able to bring her to some recordings, show her all the cool things her appa do while he’s away from her. He could maybe bring her to work with him some times when you have to go back to the office. The rest of the boys would certainly love it.
And it is with those thoughts in mind that Minho signals Chan over.
He puts his mic away, gets closer to his friends ear so that only he can hear what he asks of.
“Can I spoil the statement?”
“What?”
“Not everything, just tell them there’s a statement coming, that they should not worry about it”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea”, his leader keeps his face guarded, expression normal, but Minho has lived with the guy for long enough to see the worry on his eyes.
“Trust me on this?”, and Minho is not insistent like that. Chan has known the man just as well.
So the leader relents, a short nod in approval, “I don’t know if they’ll keep it in the broadcast”.
“I know”, and Minho also know how to make them keep it.
Changbin is watching, sensing something is off. Minho smiles at him, reassurance, he needs his family to trust him.
A couple of the boys are nearer the boarder of the small stage, interacting with the fans. Minho sees that the cameras are on, filming behind the scenes content for their socials, for sure. He takes his chance, brings the mic to his lips.
“Stay, hi!” he calls for their attention brightly.
The crowd cheers, the boys look at him confused.
“I wanted to say thank you”, and Minho is sincere, he keeps his eyes bright, his expression light, he needs everyone to know this is a good thing, he doesn’t want them to worry. “I appreciate you waiting for me, I’m sorry I missed some of the fun but I’m thankful to the members for covering for me”
He looks pointedly behind him, makes eye contact with every single one of the boys. Some are confused, some are smiling back. None make any movement to stop him.
“I don’t want you to worry about me so I want to say something but you have to promise not to tell anyone yet”, the crowd cheer their agreement, “but later, if they cut this off, than you can talk about it, okay?”
Another cheer, a little louder. He sees the movement on the side stage, managers and producers alike all confused but what was going on.
“I can’t say much yet but a few statements will be coming out soon”, a worried sound goes through the crowds, “it’s nothing bad, I promise, but I just wanted you all to know from me first that I am sorry to have worried you, I’m sorry if I ever disappointed you, and I hope you will keep loving Stray Kids just the same”.
Someone in the crowd screams, “are you leaving the group?”
Hyunjin laughs behind him, it takes Minho off guard but he looks back to see the younger boy bringing his own mic to his face, “do you really thing we can get rid of him?”
“Ya, he’s stuck with us forever”, Changbin adds, voice loud and bright.
“Stay doesn’t need to worry, you just need to trust us”, it’s Seungmin’s turn.
And Minho is so grateful.
He bows deeply before leaving the stage. Gets an earful of his managers but the members give him little pats in the back as they walk backstage. And they’re the most important part of this whole thing anyway.
“How are you feeling?”, Jisung is beside him on the waiting room. They still have to shoot a couple dance challenges and behind content before they’re able to go home.
“Tired”, Minho says, honestly, allowing his body to slide down the chair a little bit, “ready to go home”
“How are Y/N and Miseol?”
That makes Minho smile, “they’re good”
“Oh my god you really do get the look”, Minho turns to look and Jisung has that little sparkle of mischief in his eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“The appa look, they were right”
“Who’s ‘they’?” he rightens his body to do the air quotes, not following what Jisung is saying.
“Literally everyone, dude” he moves his arms around for emphasis.
“What is everyone doing?” Jeongin pipes in, having just walked into the waiting area.
“Saying Minho has an appa look” Jisung clarifies.
“Oh, he does” the younger agrees.
“No, I don’t?” Minho is starting to question his own certainties.
Jisung and Jeongin share a look. Minho hates that he is not in on said look.
“Than can you talk about Miseol for like a minute for me?” Jeongin requests, pulling out his phone while at it.
Minho takes a deep breath and stares pointedly at his maknae, but complies.
He doesn’t really know what to say at first but, as he starts, he finds out the words come easy to him. He talks about how you’ve been talking to the baby so much that he sometimes hears your voice even when you are not there. The two of you were still calling Miseol by her nickname of Bun, but that had also evolved into Bunny, Bunbaby and, more recently, BobaBun - coined by you because her eyes look more and more like boba balls everyday. You joke about how Miseol will end up getting Minho’s expressive eyes just based on how she stares at you when you can’t figure out what she’s crying about. Minho mentions how much easier it is for him to get Miseol to fall asleep, while you always end up with her in your arms for hours. But then, how bath time ended up being mostly your responsibility - Minho is too anxious about letting her slip into the bathtub, shoulders way too tense the entire time. It’s just that she’s so small? And water can be so scary? He should probably sign her up for swimming lessons as soon as possible, right?
“And there it is”, Jeongin pulls Minho out of his monologue.
Minho shuts his mouth as stares at the younger members before him. Jeongin shows his phone screen to Jisung first before turning it to Minho.
Oh, okay.
It’s just final bit of the video. Minho doesn’t need the sound to see what they mean. He has never seen that expression on his face before.
Huh.
The members will keep teasing him about his appa look. He will stop denying it but will never concede that he has such a thing either.
He doesn’t mind it, really, it’s more about sticking to the principle of the thing. Minho is an appa, after all, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
—
Hello, this is JYP Entertainment.
We would like to express our sincere gratitude to all the fans who continue to show their love and support for Stray Kids. We understand that the fans have shown concerns regarding Lee Know’s recent absence from official content and performances.
We would like to inform you that Stray Kids member Lee Know will be taking a short break from group activities to focus on his personal life.
Lee Know has met someone precious to him and together they have recently welcomed a baby girl into their lives.
As his girlfriend is a non-celebrity, we ask for the fans and media reporters to respect their privacy.
We sincerely apologize for any concern this news may cause to fans who have been looking forward to Stray Kids new album activities.
Lee Know will continue to work hard as an artist and will be back shortly with the full support of Stray Kids and JYP Entertainment.
As this decision was made with the artist’s well being as our top priority, we kindly ask for your understanding and continued support.
We ask you to send Lee Know and his family lots of blessings and messages of celebration.
Thank you.
—
On the day that the showcase would air, you were taking a nap with Miseol while Minho was on the sofa, reading over the statement that had just came out.
He had a handwritten letter ready to go as well. The company insisted on it. He thought the whole thing a bit archaic but did it nonetheless. You thought it was sentimental and said he should post it on his own social media, instead of the group’s official accounts. Something more personal. Minho kept the letter pretty close to what he had said during the recording of the showcase - and knew that video would be coming out too, after being reviewed by a team of managers many, many times.
When deciding on how to post the letter, you were the one to suggest him doing it alongside a few photos - images that didn’t show your daughter’s face, but still enough that everyone knew she was an actual, real human. Someone innocent on this whole thing that meant a lot to a lot of people.
He scrolls through the hundreds of photos from the past few months, trying and failing to pick the perfect ones.
It took him almost the entirety of your nap, but he hit post just as he heard you coming down to the living room.
“What time is it?” you ask, hair messy, hands still brushing sleep out of your eyes.
“Almost dinner time”, he replies, making space on the sofa for you to join him. You do.
“My sleeping schedule is so fucked, I’ll never be able to get it fixed”, you whine into his chest, closing your eyes again, taking in his comfort.
“Yes you will”, he starts, hands soothing down your side, “it might just take until Bun is in school”
You groan. Because you know it’s true. Because you can’t think about her going to school. Because you just woke up and want to go back to sleep already. There’s a lot to groan about.
“Did the statement come out?” you ask, thinking if there’s one more thing to add to your groan-list.
“Yup”, Minho fishes his phone, unlocking it to you, “I also posted this”
It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the light. You see that there are notifications popping down non stop. From the members, from managers. So you set the phone to do not disturb so you can look at the post before you think about the repercussions of it.
The first picture is Minho’s classic black square.
The second is Miseol’s little feet, wearing the bunny socks you had used to gift Minho the ultrasound. It was a favorite of his and, whenever he was on duty to dress her up, nine times out of ten you would find your daughter wearing them. You should probably look into getting a larger one soon, she was growing fast.
The third was a close up of Minho’s face, his eye bags taking center stage. Neither of you had been getting much sleep. You let out a little snort at that and looks up at him, he’s so proud of himself and his whole expression shows it.
“You think you’re funnier than you actually are”
“Well, you laughed” and you roll your eyes because you hate when he’s right.
The fourth photo is, surprisingly, the bump. It was taken during one of your visits to Minho’s parent’s place with him. You had just eaten lunch and were all hanging out at the living room. Soonie had taken a liking to your belly from the very first time you visited them after finding out you were pregnant. On that day, already far into the pregnancy, while you rested on the sofa, the cat had decided he should take a nap on top of your bump. He was too big to fit properly, so his front legs were just hanging from the side. He fell asleep with his eyes half open, fully relaxed. Minho was only able to snap a couple of photos before your giggles disturbed Soonie’s slumber. That being one of those.
The next photo slide was Miseol’s little fist holding onto her big Leebit through the ears.
And then, finally, her hand again, wrapped around Minho’s finger.
The photos of the hand written letter followed, and you scrolled down to see the caption of the post.
t.leeknowsaurus Hi hi, Stay~
I have not been sleeping much but I am really happy
Don’t worry too much!
I’ll be with Stay again soon, but right now I need to be with this little dancer, she’s growing too fast already
I love you
It is very him. You look up and meet your lips to his.
“I love you”, you say. You can’t stop saying it now.
“You know that 'I love you' was for Stay, right?” He teases.
“And since when am I not a Stay?”
He smiles and kisses you again, “you’re right, you are my very first fan”
“Don’t disrespect your mother like that, I’m okay being second place”
“Do you think Miseol will like music?”
“With you as a dad? How could she not?”
“Then we will be her first fans.” He sounds dreamlike. You smile at the thought.
You can almost see it. Years from now, whatever it is Miseol decides to do, having Minho by your side to cheer her on.
You wouldn’t have it any other way.
> a/n | one final little chapter to go, everyone……. I'm feeling so bittersweet about the end of this story. On one hand I'm so proud of myself for seeing it through and so happy that many of you seem to have liked it but the other side to that is the truth that this little piece of writing meant a lot to me and was very much an escape from the chaos of real life. So yeah, bittersweet. I'll come back with an epilogue and a longer note next week, I ammmmm working on a couple other things for you that I'm very excited about, but I also need to take some time to let those stories simmer like I did with this one before posting it. Anyway, this is already too long. Thank you for reading, see you very soon :)
> taglist is open!
pairing: stray kids hyung line x reader (separate)
genre: established relationships, fake texts, member is close with/talks to reader's family
warnings: implied good relationships with family in all. Chan: mention of marriage (somehow always slips into his oops), and Chan has baby fever. Hyunjin: reader's sister is depressed bc of a bad break up and reader a little insecure/sad that sister is confiding in Hyunjin more than reader.
> genre | friends to lovers, fluff, smut, pregnancy, the tiniest bit of angst
> warnings | mentions of a bad childhood, MDNI.
> ttots masterlist
18. intermission. autumn
It’s late.
You should not have been awake at 4 AM and yet.
It’s not even as if you were sleep deprived. Truth be told, ever since going to bed the night before, this was the first time you were the one to get up. Minho was out the door the three previous times your daughter did as much as whine. You heard her cry while already up - your bladder was still not back to normal and kept waking you up at unreasonable hours. So you were quick to assure Minho you got her this time.
You had fed her and changed her. She had stopped crying, that is, until you tried putting her down. So you were doing laps around your small living room, going from the kitchen to her bedroom, holding her close and humming quietly, in hopes she’d be sleepy enough to be transferred to the crib with less of a fuss.
The sad thing was, you were already fully awake. You knew that, even if you managed to free your arms eventually, there was not way you were going back to bed. So you were in no rush. You took your time holding your baby. It’s not even been a week with her home and you felt that she had already changed so much. Her eyes were attentive to everything and she looked like she was filling her newborn clothes better.
It would still be night for quite a while, it seemed like the real start of winter. The rain was constant but looked like it would stop at any minute now, maybe turn into snow. The weather made you think of times when you were up at this hour as a young girl. Back when you were too big to need looking after all the time, but too small to know any better.
The alarm went off too late.
The bus would be coming in less then 15 minutes and you had not packed you bag properly the night before.
You were up late washing the dishes from dinner - you left the stove on for too long and half of the food was burnt and stuck at the bottom of the pan. Mom would be home the next morning and you didn’t want to leave the mess for her to handle. You still had homework to get done and needed to find a change of clothes to take with you for later in the day.
The dance lessons were expensive. It took you two years to convince your dad to allow you to sign up. You saved every last bit of your allowance to help out, and the ajumma at the nearby convenience store would always sneak you a couple of bills when you helped her with the delivery boxes.
Deep down you thought your mom was happy you’d start spending your afternoons after school out of the house. She had been taking on night shifts and would use the afternoons to catch up on sleep, so with you out all day that was one less thing to worry her. Dad had been traveling for work a lot - part of the reason why you were allowed the dance lessons was probably his guilty conscious at being away all the time.
But all that would only work if you could manage it yourself.
And you would manage, eventually. Over the years you would become a pro at juggling all sorts of responsibilities. You would dance until the very last available opportunity, and when those stopped, you would fill your time with other interests, other abilities, other lessons. You would keep dancing at home but, most importantly, your time at the dance academy would teach you about having a team behind you, people you could count on.
But that’s later.
So with less then five minutes to figure it out, you just stashed the first clean clothes you came across in your bag and grabbed an overly ripe apple on your way out. You could probably steal a bit of one of your friend’s lunch later in the day.
Your winter jacket was getting too small. The sleeves no longer covered your wrists and the padding didn’t feel that comforting anymore. Just as you stepped into the bus, barely making it, did you notice the soles of your shoes had also seen better days. You knew those sneakers were reaching the end of its life but you’d be out all day and boots were not the best dancing shoes. Your socks were wet, the bottom of your pants too.
But you made it to school, managed to dry yourself off, attended all your classes as expected. When lunch came by, there was a new face at your table. You had met Bora the week before, when you first visited the dance academy. She was brought in by the dance instructor, who knew she attended the same school as you.
It felt almost like a prank, at first. A little jab of the universe at you. Your mom had signed all the papers, sent in her authorization and the first payment for the lessons. But you went in alone, shaken to your core at the prospect of being denied entry. It was unusual timing, the middle of winter. But there was an opening, your math teacher was the one to let you know about it.
She knew you danced, casually. When you stayed late at school following dance videos on the cafeteria’s little TV while you waited for someone to come pick you up. She lost track of how many times over the past few years she escorted you home while you were still too small to get on the bus by yourself. Her sister was teaching at the studio, she might have mentioned something to you mom too, one of those rare times she managed to catch her.
And then you got there, and they bring in this girl, bright eyed and quick to laugh, to help show you around the place. You liked her immediately. Bora said she’d find you at school the next day, and she did.
You’ve been inseparable ever since. She caught you up on all the drama at the dance academy, who were the good instructors, the cooler classes to take. What to wear to fit in, who to avoid if you didn’t want an accidental sprained ankle. It was brutal out there, it seemed, and to have someone so nice given to you so easily? It felt odd, nothing ever went like that for you.
So you didn’t question when the rain turned into a downpour on your way out of school. That you were used to. Bora had left first, she had a dad that picked her up so she could change at home before classes. You didn’t know it yet, but over the next few years, many would be the times when you’d join her. Play around with her siblings on the back seat, reply to questions about school coming from her parents, who actually cared and wanted to know.
But that’s later.
At first you’d kill time at school. Take another bus. Walk a few blocks. Pace around until your wrist watch told you it was okay for you to go in.
One day a tutor would see you waiting outside, right as the days started to grow colder, and invite you in early for tea. She’d help you with homework and braid your hair for lessons. Many times over the years you’d think about her, whenever you could smell green tea brewing. Because she never asked you why you were waiting outside, she just took a look at your scrawny figure, your unfitted clothes, and the way you kept repeating the same movements to a choreography she had crafted, even without any music to be heard.
But that’s later.
When it was finally time for you to go in, that first day, you were soaked. The rain was a burden - but not unexpected. It didn’t exactly catch you off guard. You had time to hide your backpack under your coat, to try to keep your school work safe. But your hair was wet. Your legs were wet. Your shoes, specially, were absolutely drowned.
But you changed into what you brought. You ignored the splash sounds following you around as you walked. And you took the damn class.
You were surprised at how easily you followed along. The many hours spent in front of the TV paying off. Bora helped you with the steps you had trouble with and introduced you to her friends. You were happy. But then it was time to go home, and it was already dark out again, and the rain had came back. Bora left and you changed back into your - still wet - coat.
While you waited for the sky to stop crying, maybe just a little bit, enough for you to run to the bus stop, a little boy popped up beside you.
Bora had pointed at him earlier in class. That’s Minho, he’s a little weird***.** You had seen him dance, a little jealous of how easy it came to him. It was a new choreography for everyone, so why did it look like he’d been practicing it for months? He was holding in a good puffer jacket. Something old, maybe second hand, but cared for and, most importantly, warm.*
“Can you hold that for me?”, he says. Not a hello, not a nice to meet you. Just a request. You extend your arm mindlessly, taking the coat from his hands.
He kneels down, looks for something inside his bag and takes out a little pen drive. The little red device is attached to a cat keychain. He swiftly slides it off the wire holding it together, stands up and extends it to you.
“I had the teacher make me a copy of the songs”, you gawk at him, not fully understanding what’s going on, “you can have it until tomorrow.”
You start to feel ashamed, am I that bad of a dancer he’s doing all that to tell me I need to practice? But you also feel a little grateful, you had been wondering how to get your hands on the songs so you could keep training at home.
Before you can say anything, he keeps going.
“You can also borrow my coat, it will probably snow soon, my mom is picking me up”, and as if spoken into existence, a car pulls up in front of the dance academy.
Minho goes down the few stairs in a hurry, and hops into the car that had the car already pushed open by the woman sitting inside. He waves at you quickly before shutting the door behind him, avoiding the heavy rain still pouring down.
Once the car leaves you find yourself stuck in the same position, struck by the kindness of a kid you had never seen before. You slide in his coat, grateful for the extra warm it brings. It’s the perfect size for you and you consider stealing it forever, wonder if he will actually ask it back tomorrow.
He doesn’t. And he never will again, for any of the clothes you end up keeping of his.
But that’s later.
Back then, the rain gave you a break and, just as you were reaching the bus stop, little white specks started to fall from the sky.
It was the first snow of the year.
The bus took way too long to arrive and by the time you made it home it was way later than you expected it to be. Not that anyone noticed it, your mom had already left for work, your dad would not be back for another week. But you didn’t mind that much for once. You took a minute at your front porch. The snow had become a steady gentle companion. It had stopped raining, the street was starting to become slippery with ice. It was beautiful.
Because you had made new friends. You were dancing, for real. A boy had landed you his coat. It was snowing.
Through the years, you would spend many first-days-of-snow with them. You never forgot how your friendship had started. Minho and you would exchange that one pen drive for years, sharing song ideas for dances. It would break, eventually, but by then you already both had access to computers and, not much later, phones. And then you would text non stop, from serious to silly. Everything that life threw at you after that day, you managed to tackle.
It’s later.
You had slightly turned the chair at the nursery so it faced the window. The sky was starting to lighten and your baby was finally asleep in your arms.
“Is she down?” Minho is standing at the door, leaning on it, arms crossed over his chest as if he had been there for a while. He keeps his voice down, his usual bright tones disappearing and giving space for the low notes he only reaches on the early hours of the day.
“I think so”, you take her in for a second and suddenly you know it.
You look back at him, just as he’s coming closer. He leans down and you transfer her to his arms, she fusses for a second but settles easily. You think he’ll put her on the bassinet but instead he takes a step towards the window, looking outside while cradling her body close to his chest.
The step you take after standing up is the easier one you took your entire life. Almost like a magnet, you’re supposed to be right by them.
“Miseol” you say, quietly.
It doesn’t look like he heard you at first. His posture stays the same, he keeps looking out.
“It’s snowing”, he says. He looks down at the baby asleep on his arms. He repeats the name, “Miseol”
“What do you think?”, you wrap your arms sideways around his waist, rests your head on his shoulder to also look down at the baby.
He kisses the top of your head, “it’s perfect”.
Somewhere, on a different room, an alarm sets off. Soon the day will be here. The quiet will be replaced by the sounds of the world outside waking up.
But that’s later.
For a little while, it’s just you, Minho, Miseol and the first snow of the year falling outside. Time does not exist.
> a/n | ok so baby Bun finally has a name!!! I am not Korean so I had to trust good old baby-name sites to find one that made sense with the story, so Miseol meaning comes from the Sino-Korean 美 (mi) meaning "beauty", and 雪 (seol) meaning "snow". As always, thanks for reading, see you sooooon
> taglist is open!
SUMMARY. Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. But when you were fifteen, you were replaced by a revolving door of girlfriends. Thus began your decade-long aversion to the holiday—this year, however, you’ve been tasked with hosting the annual Christmas soirée, and there’s no telling what might be waiting for you under the mistletoe this time around.
pairing. jeon jungkook x reader
word count. 23.8k
warnings/genre. childhood best friends to lovers (aka idiots to lovers if you squint!!!), slight angst, fluff, reader is the grinch reincarnated, jungkook is oblivious, alcohol consumption, smut, oral and fingering (f receiving), multiple orgasms, big dick jungkook bc what else, unprotected sex sorry she’s on the pill, crying during sex (but in a cute way), it’s all just really cute i kinda hate them
note. welcome to the dreamersparacosm golden era… two one-shots over 15k words in one month. my fingers are tired. but it’s all fine n dandy bc it’s the HOLIDAYS!!! and what better way to celebrate than with a friends to lovers fic? believe it or not, this was originally going to be enemies with lovers, but i had a long talk with myself and realized that theres no way in hell i could ever do justice to a e2l in under 304949k words, but rest assured there is enough pining and angst to keep you well-fed 🥰 oc is yearning final boss, jungkook is a slowburner who’s also an idiot. my favorite kind of couple! i hope you all had a wonderful holiday! p.s: stay tuned for an extra special treat from these two later today :)
▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။|||| last christmas by wham
banner creds | masterlist | epilogue blurb
The Grinch has always been your favorite Christmas movie.
Not because it’s particularly funny or thrilling, but because you can relate to that pessimistic green ball of fur. He despises the holiday just as much as you do—and that’s generous, considering your animosity towards the day has reached unfeasible levels. You might be worse than the aforementioned ball of fur.
There’s really no one else to blame for your aversion to the holiday… besides Jeon Jungkook.
Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.
Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes.
When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew.
At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you.
And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare.
Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on.
So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death.
All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe.
“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man.
“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant.
“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently.
“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”
He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”
You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still.
You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”
“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”
All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?”
Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year.
“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.”
“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands.
“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions.
“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.
“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?”
The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.
He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?”
“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”
Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”
“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”
Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world.
In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer.
Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.
Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around.
“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”
“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”
“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”
“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”
“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.”
He salutes you, which makes you snort.
“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”
His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”
See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”
But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave.
So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”
Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”
You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”
He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart.
“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”
“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”
“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.
“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter.
“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking.
“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment.
He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.
“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”
You trail behind him. “Fine.”
He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”
Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”
“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.
When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.
He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing.
But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.
Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’
He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.
Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye.
He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on.
Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma.
“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.
You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.
“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways.
“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?”
“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”
“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”
“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”
You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions.
But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that.
“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly.
“Are you insane?”
“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”
“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you.
He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”
“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue.
“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache.
“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace.
He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“I will leave, Jungkook.”
He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”
Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest.
You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?”
“It was Hana’s.”
You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”
Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”
“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?
You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason.
“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”
Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it.
“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.
He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”
For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”
“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows.
“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”
“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”
For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest.
Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring.
He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”
“Make me.”
He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”
“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”
It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.
At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”
“The old shit in there?”
He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”
“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.
You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match.
You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face.
On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box.
Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].
For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do.
If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker.
You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees.
He kept it.
“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums.
“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”
You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?
Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it.
Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.
First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine.
Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.
Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.
The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.
To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.
“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”
You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”
“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”
“Hmm, uglier than the first.”
“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”
Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.”
“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”
You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”
He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”
It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt.
“You’re still a pain in my ass.”
“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”
You can’t argue with that.
He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold.
You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone.
“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”
“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.
He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”
“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.
Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.
“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”
“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.
“And then I got you out of it.”
“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory.
He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time.
Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”
You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).
You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string.
Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says.
You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight.
“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough.
He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.
“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before.
“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”
Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you.
Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15. You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.
“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”
It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”
“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”
“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”
“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”
“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”
He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles.
You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.”
He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?”
Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”
“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”
You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”
“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”
“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.
“Worked well for us, I think.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Oh god, you’ve really done it now.
Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger.
Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”
“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”
He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”
Weird.
And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal.
“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”
He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.
“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”
He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”
You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less.
He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”
“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”
“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”
Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.
But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.
You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”
He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.”
Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb.
“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”
Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”
“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”
“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”
“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.”
You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”
“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently.
Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”
“Cause of stress or something? School shit?”
“Sure.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now.
He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."
She purrs in the corner.
“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”
You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.
Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.
This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)
The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.
So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in.
“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?”
“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink.
“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”
You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”
He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”
You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly.
You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.
It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.
But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.
“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room.
Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest.
“Not too shabby, Jeon.”
He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”
“Subpar at best.”
“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”
“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.
“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”
You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”
He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”
“My abode is not a lair.”
“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder.
“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”
“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.
Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know.
“I have a surprise.”
You protest, “Jungkook—”
“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage.
Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is.
He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.
In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.
It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been.
“No,” you object immediately.
“Come on—”
“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time.
“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”
“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”
“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”
“Not this one.”
“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”
You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity.
“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”
His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?
“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”
“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”
“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’
He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”
Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.
“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do.
“Why not?”
Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.
“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”
An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”
“Thank you,” you sigh in relief.
He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.
“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly.
He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created.
At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”
“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter.
“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”
“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.
“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”
Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”
“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”
“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”
“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.
“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”
For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”
“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”
“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”
“How is it different? Enlighten me.”
“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”
Fuck. “Koo—”
“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”
You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”
“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”
“Oh.”
Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”
The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered.
He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.
You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.
The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.
Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.
Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”
“[Y/N]?”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Hana.
The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be.
At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.
Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were.
“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”
“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.
“How have you been?” she asks.
“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home.
“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”
“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.
“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”
“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”
“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.
There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”
You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her for wondering. “What do you mean?”
“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”
Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”
“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer.
You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”
She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”
“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”
“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”
“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can.
“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”
Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”
She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”
Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”
“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.”
Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?
“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”
She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”
It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land.
“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”
She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”
“Really.”
“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”
Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”
“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest.
“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.
She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”
You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”
She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”
Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.
“Hana, I never meant to—”
“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”
Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked. He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him. You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry.
“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”
“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft.
For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here.
“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”
“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape.
You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry.
“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”
Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”
There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”
Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow.
“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”
She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.
“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”
You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket.
“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”
Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..
“What did he say, Hana?”
“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”
Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf.
“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.
“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.”
She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”
You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.
But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.
No. It can’t fucking be.
“I gotta go,” you say abruptly.
“[Y/N]—”
But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely.
There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.
It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills.
It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned.
Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening:
Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day.
When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.
Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.
Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment.
Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter.
It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better.
You feel ill. Fucking ill.
Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.
“You alright?”
You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.
“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”
“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”
“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out.
Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”
Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.
“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”
Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”
Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it.
It’s worth one last shot.
“Nothing’s wrong—”
“Bitch just tell me.”
You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.
Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly.
“I fucked up.”
Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”
You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”
“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”
Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything. How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.
You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours.
When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says, “That was a low blow.”
“I know.”
“Like, really bad.”
“I know.”
“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”
“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”
“Have you apologized?”
“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”
“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.
“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”
“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically.
You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole.
The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.
Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see.
And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.
You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm.
Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”
But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.
“Oh,” she says.
Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?
“How long?” Jisoo questions.
“How long what?”
“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”
You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.
“Since I was a kid.”
Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”
“Yeah,” is all you can offer.
“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room.
“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”
She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”
She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”
“I get that a lot.”
From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.
“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.”
It’s already worse.
“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”
“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”
The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.
“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts.
“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”
You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.
Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”
“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?”
Yeah, exactly that.
“We’ll see.”
Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”
You hold up your middle finger.
“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.
And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you.
It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.”
You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly.
“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”
Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.
Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs.
It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook.
You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you.
He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon).
Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.
But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle.
Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve.
You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand.
“Need any help?”
Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat.
Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous.
“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”
He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you.
You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.
“The party’s a hit,” he offers.
“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.”
“The food’s really good too.”
“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted.
This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to.
“Listen—”
“Jungkook,” you say in unison.
Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.
He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”
Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge.
Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.
But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?
“Maybe, Jungkook.”
Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”
He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.
Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words.
You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.
“Jungkook.”
Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”
Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.
“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”
He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.
By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore.
“Is this a joke?” you ask.
“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth.
You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.
“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?”
Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain.
Shit.
Your throat goes dry.
“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”
“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips.
“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare.
“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.”
“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”
Tradition. That stupid fucking word.
“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug.
“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”
You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.
“I was drunk,” you argue.
Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.
“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”
You throw her a grateful look.
“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.
“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat.
But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching.
“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.
“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”
The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other.
Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.
There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower.
He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest.
It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks.
It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.
Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship.
The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.
But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful.
You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods.
You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’
He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.
And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.
But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks.
Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“Shut up.” Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”
“Nothing’s up.”
“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?”
Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”
“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”
Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”
“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”
“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”
“She what?”
“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”
“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.”
“That was not a confident yeah.”
“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”
“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”
“I don’t know…”
“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”
Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.
“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now.
“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”
Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.
He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.
“Yeah. I think so.”
Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”
Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”
Oh.
“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Excuse me?”
Jungkook’s chest feels tight.
But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”
He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him.
“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”
Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance.
He can’t help it.
“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”
“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”
“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’
Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.
“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes.
“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”
“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.
Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.
“Jungkook.” Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”
It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not.
Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time.
“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”
But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—
In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.
Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest.
Oh god. Oh fuck.
How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?
His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.
“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away.
All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.
He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it.
But he remembers every Christmas with you.
He remembers all of it.
Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo.
Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”
“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs.
Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”
“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”
His credentials are questionable.
“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”
Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred.
Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be.
“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly.
“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”
Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.
But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year.
For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”
To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).
You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.
Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.
You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.
What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?
It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway.
And then you scream.
You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.
Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”
“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”
“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”
Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle.
It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.
But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up.
“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands.
“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”
You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.
“I am.”
He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.
“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.”
With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it.
But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him.
“Me neither,” you agree quietly.
You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway.
“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice.
You keep scrubbing.
“Hey.”
His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh.
“That’s it? That’s all?”
You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”
There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.
But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.
Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you.
What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?
You can do that, you think.
You swallow, “Jungkook—”
“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit.
“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”
That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.
“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”
He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”
“Do you remember when it all started?”
He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”
“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”
Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter.
“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”
Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.
“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”
He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him.
“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”
Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features.
“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”
The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks.
“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”
You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”
“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”
Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”
“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”
“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”
You hiccup, trying to catch your breath.
“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks.
You deadpan. “What?”
“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”
“I–what? Why?”
You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.
Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest.
“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”
“Look up.” He smiles.
With shaky breath, you crane your neck.
Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan.
You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”
“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”
You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles.
He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying.
Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room.
Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself.
“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”
“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it.
But he nods.
“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”
“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire.
“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”
Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible.
“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”
He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets.
“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”
“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”
Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow.
“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”
He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight.
He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent.
“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”
“Koo,” is all you can manage.
“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater.
“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”
Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose.
His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”
Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…
“You… you love me?”
“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”
Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this.
“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.”
His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”
Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face.
“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”
And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle.
“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles.
“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”
You laugh, a watery bubbling sound.
You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.
“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear.
You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”
“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes.
His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown.
“Can I kiss you?”
You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.
“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”
He kisses you.
And oh.
Oh.
You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds.
Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.
The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms.
His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.
Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.
“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”
“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”
You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.
At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more.
Finally, you think to yourself.
You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this.
He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.
Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom.
You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.
“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease.
“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills.
Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously.
“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”
You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”
“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”
Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely.
You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.
“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”
“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”
“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”
He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”
Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”
This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.
“Still nervous?” you mutter.
“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”
“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck.
“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”
You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”
He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”
“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”
He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”
Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of.
Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you.
“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.
You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment.
You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?
And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”
Tears threaten to appear again.
He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”
“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips.
He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.
Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them.
“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”
You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”
“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”
That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you.
“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever.
“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”
“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak.
He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”
“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”
He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked.
“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”
And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin.
“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”
“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”
“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”
You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have.
And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”
He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse.
You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly.
Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine.
“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses.
His cheeks turn red.
“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”
You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?”
He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”
“What, Koo?”
Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”
Oh.
Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it.
You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips.
“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”
“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”
He grins toothily. “I love you too.”
And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest.
You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you.
You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length.
“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.
“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline.
Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck.
You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.
But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.
You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”
Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you.
He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you.
You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”
“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”
A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right.
“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face.
“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”
“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.
“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”
“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake.
You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat.
Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you.
His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.
“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”
You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second.
He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”
“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”
He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”
Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”
You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.
“Yours,” you cry, clutching him.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.
“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”
“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”
Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his.
You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.
You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.
It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.
You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.
Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”
“Me either.”
“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question.
“What do you mean?”
“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”
“Of course it did.”
You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”
Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.
You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.
“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”
“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies."
“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug.
He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”
Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”
“It was all you.”
He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”
You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore.
You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”
“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”
He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.
“Koo, what—”
But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.
“Close your eyes,” he demands.
“Jungkook—”
“Close them,” he whines.
You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.
“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”
Timidly, you open them.
He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.
It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.
“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.
His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”
“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”
His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.
Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved.
It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip.
“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur.
He pauses. Goes completely still.
“You saw that?”
“It has my name on it.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.
“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.”
You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you.
After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily.
“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.
In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach.
You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it?
The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.
But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle.
Plus, the Grinch is overrated.
“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”
warnings: none! ot8 (separate) x reader, fluff, crack, humor, no specific depictions of why they're at the hospital in the first place, probably (very) inaccurate, a heck ton of references, nonidol!au, established relationships.
wc: 5k-ish
a/n: imagine them speaking in slo-mo for maximum enjoyment <3
chan
The hospital elevator doors slid open with a soft ding, revealing a long hallway lined with numbered doors. You shifted the greasy paper bag in your hand, still warm against your palm, and stepped out.
Room 097. You nudged the door open with your elbow, balancing the food and a soda cup. Chan was exactly where you’d left him, propped up in bed in a 45 degree angle, eyelids heavy, hair messy and slightly curlee. The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him, its rhythmic pulse filling the quiet room.
“Brought fries,” you announced, shaking the bag a little. His head lolled toward the sound, reaction delayed.
“Fries?” Chan repeated, the word slow and dragged out. His expression suggested that anesthesia hadn’t quite worn off yet.
Chan's fingers twitched toward the bag before his hand even fully registered the movement, his wrist drooping mid-air.
You walked over and perched on the edge of his bed, the paper crinkling as you unfolded the top with exaggerated care — partly to keep grease off the sheets, partly to watch his face slowly crumple into anticipatory delight. His nose scrunched first, then his mouth fell open slightly, his whole body tilting towards you.
You handed him the bag, and his fingers curled around it carefully, then he pulled out a single fry, holding it up between thumb and forefinger, then, with a slowly, he took a bite.
The change was instantaneous. His eyes widened, fully awake now, and the heart monitor stuttered, skipped, then kicked into a faster rhythm. Beep-beep-beep.
You could practically see the dopamine hitting his bloodstream, his pupils dilating further as he chewed. “Oh,” he breathed, voice hushed with reverence. “Ohhh. this is goooood”
he attacked the next fry, fumbling slightly as his anesthesia-slowed reflexes struggled to keep up with his enthusiasm.
A fry slipped from his grip, landing on the blanket with a quiet *plop*. Without thinking, you picked it up and held it out to him. Chan leaned forward, mouth open, and let you pop it between his lips. His teeth grazed your fingertips, and he hummed around the bite.
“You—” he started, then paused to swallow, his tongue darting out to catch a stray grain of salt from his bottom lip. “You made these.” It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, delivered by your boyfriend who’d just discovered the meaning of life in a paper bag of fast food fries.
You opened your mouth to correct him—Chan, I literally got these from the drive thru— but he was already rambling ahead, “S’why I love you,” he slurred, gesturing vaguely with a fry clutched between his fingers. “Magic hands. Could marry you. Would marry you. Right now.”
His head lolled to the side, “Do they do weddings here? In hospitals?” he paused, slowly reaching a finger to point at you "do you do weddings? like, as the bride?"
You couldn’t help it—you laughed, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably as Chan blinked at you with solemn, drug-dazed sincerity.
The heart monitor’s tempo increased another notch after he heard your laugh, keeping time with the way his free hand pawed clumsily at yours, "Pretty sure you're not legally allowed to consent to marriage while hopped up on anesthetic drugs," you said, plucking another fry with your free hand from the bag and holding it out.
Chan's mouth opened automatically, eyes crossing slightly as he focused on the fry's approach. "Mmm, but I mean it, though" he insisted around the mouthful, cheeks puffing out.
He brought your joined hands to his mouth, pressing a greasy, exaggerated kiss to your knuckles. "you make amazing fries,” he mumbled against your skin, "you'd make an amazing wife too"
minho
Did I...hic... swallow a lightbulb?" Minho's voice was thick with confusion, syllables sliding together. His eyelids fluttered against the ceiling light's glare, and somewhere to his left, a machine beeped in what felt like slow motion.
The old nurse's chuckle was warm but professional. "No, sweetheart, that's just the anesthesia. You're in recovery." She adjusted his IV with practiced ease.
Minho's fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets, his brow furrowing deeper when they met empty space. "huh—" He exhaled sharply, arm flopping sideways with alarming lack of coordination. "Where's—?"
Your hand caught his just as panic started creasing his forehead. The instant your skin touched his, his whole body sagged back into the pillow in relief, "Oh," he murmured, thumb clumsily stroking your knuckles. "There you are." His smile was lopsided, pupils still blown wide from the drugs.
The nurse leaned over him with a penlight, her scrubs rustling from the movement. "Mr. Lee, can you tell me where you are right now?"
Minho blinked at the ceiling tiles, his gaze drifting. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. "No," he admitted finally, his voice scratchy with sleep and drugs. Then his fingers tightened around yours, "But my girlfriend's here so it's probably okay."
You bit back a laugh as the nurse's eyebrows shot up. She turned to you with a smile. "He's adorable when he's high, isn't he?"
Minho made a noise of protest, or at least tried to, but it came out as more of a drowsy hum, his fingers flexing weakly around yours. "Not high," he mumbled, his tongue slow and heavy. "Just..." His head lolled toward you, eyes struggling to focus. "wait," he squinted at you "you brought pudding?"
You hadn't even taken the lid off yet, but somehow, he'd already caught the scent of vanilla from the little plastic cup in your bag.
The nurse chuckled again and patted his shoulder. "I'll leave you two to it," she said, slipping out of the curtained area with a final rustle of scrubs.
Minho's face lit up when you finally pulled it out and peeled back the foil seal, his drowsy expression shifting into something close to glee.
"You know me," he sighed dreamily. His hands twitched uselessly in his lap — still too uncoordinated to hold the spoon — so you scooped up a bite and guided it toward his mouth.
He accepted it with a happy noise, eyes fluttering shut as he savored it. "That's crazy," he said around the mouthful, "How do you always know?"
You were about to tease him, something about how it wasn't exactly a secret, given the way he hoarded pudding cups in your fridge — when his expression abruptly sharpened. His brows furrowed with sudden intensity, his gaze oddly serious as he squinted at you.
"Did you feed the cats, too?"
You blinked. Of all the things for him to latch onto in his anesthesia haze, that was what his brain had zeroed in on.
"Yes," you assured him, fighting a smile. "Automatic feeder’s working, water bowl’s full, and I gave them extra treats before I left."
Minho exhaled like he'd been holding his breath, his shoulders slumping in relief. "Good," he murmured, already drifting again. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, heavy with exhaustion. " 'coz sometimes they get..." His words slurred together, the sentence trailing off into silence as his grip on your fingers loosened.
You watched him for a moment, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his lips parted slightly as his breathing evened out. he hadn't even finished his pudding cup.
A soft snore escaped him, and you couldn't help but laugh under your breath. the nurse was right— he is adorable like this.
changbin
"Ow," Changbin muttered, his voice gravelly, his eyelids felt glued shut, but when he finally managed to pry them open, harsh lights stabbed his vision. He groaned, squinting at the blurry figure sitting beside him. A person, vaguely familiar, holding what looked like his phone and wallet in their lap.
He blinked. Once, twice.
The person— you —looked up instantly, pocketing your phone with a soft smile. "Hey, Binnie. How’re you feeling?"
His pupils were still blown wide from the anesthesia, giving him the dazed, unfiltered honesty of someone who hadn’t quite remembered how to censor himself yet. He blinked at you, slowly , then exhaled a quiet, awed, “…Whoa.”
You stared back at him, “What?”
“You’re really pretty.” The words came out rough, slurred at the edges but painfully earnest. He tilted his head slightly, hospital blanket pooling around his waist as he squinted at you. “Are you a nurse?”
You nearly choked on your own spit trying not to laugh. “No,” you managed.
Changbin frowned, his brows knitting together in confusion. “But you’re here,” he pointed out, “And you’re holding my stuff.” He gestured vaguely at his phone and wallet in your lap.
You bit your lip to keep from grinning. “Yeah, because I came with you.”
His head snapped up so fast his IV line wobbled. “Wait.” his eyes widened slightly “You chose to be here?”
You nodded, watching as his expression cycled through disbelief, delight, and something dangerously close to smugness in the span of three seconds.
He opened his mouth — probably to say something ridiculous — but then his gaze dropped to his own hospital gown, and his face did a complicated little twist. “Do I… look okay?” he asked, voice suddenly small.
“You're drugged,” you said with a shrug.
He pouted. “That’s not what I asked.”
Before you could answer, he made a valiant attempt to flex his bicep under the thin blanket, but the effect was ruined by the way his elbow buckled halfway through.
The IV tugged at his wrist, and he hissed, dropping his arm with a grumble. Still, he managed a wobbly grin. “Still got it,” he mumbled, more to himself than to you.
“You can barely keep your eyes open,” you teased.
“But the muscle is there,” he insisted, patting his own bicep with a sleepy sort of pride.
The nurse chose that moment to walk in, clipboard in hand, and Changbin immediately perked up like he’d been waiting for an audience. “Do I look strong right now?” he asked her, voice dripping with hope.
She barely glanced up, “Sure.”
Changbin turned back to you, triumphant, but then his expression faltered. He bit his lip, suddenly shy, fingers picking at the edge of the blanket. “So…” he started, then stopped, swallowed, tried again. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
You blinked. “Changbin. I am your girlfriend.”
Then his eyes went huge.
“WHAT?”
You burst out laughing as he stared at you in utter, slack jawed disbelief, his head whipping between you and the nurse like he needed a second opinion. “You’re serious?” he demanded, voice cracking.
“Yes.”
“You’re my girlfriend?”
“Yes, Binnie.”
His entire face turned red so fast, then he dropped his head back onto the pillow with a muffled thump, hands covering his face as he started giggling, a high-pitched, disbelieving sound that dissolved into breathless, giddy laughter.
“No way,” he wheezed, peeking at you through his fingers. “No waaay.”
The nurse turned to you, and before she could even open her mouth, Changbin jabbed a finger in your direction, grinning so wide his cheeks must’ve ached. “That’s my girlfriend,” he announced.
“I know,” she said.
“No but like—” He grabbed your hand, squeezing your fingers like he needed proof you were real. “She’s mine.”
You squeezed his hand back, rolling your eyes but unable to hide the way your cheeks warmed at his dopey declaration. "Yes, yes, we've established this," you teased, but Changbin wasn't having it — he tugged your hand closer, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd just woken up from surgery.
"Wait, wait—" His eyes narrowed suddenly, a suspicious wrinkle forming between his brows. "Prove it."
You arched an eyebrow. "Prove what?"
"That you're my girlfriend." He crossed his arms over his chest, the IV line got tangled in the blanket halfway through the motion.
You leaned forward before he could fumble with the IV any further, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his lips — barely a brush, just enough to shut him up.
he froze, eyes wide, his breath hitching audibly against your mouth. When you pulled back, his entire face was slack with stunned silence, his fingers hovering in mid air.
“…Oh,” he said finally, voice hushed. the tips of his ears turned red, then he swallowed hard, and nodded once, “Yeah. That checks out.”
You snorted, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Satisfied?”
“…Can you do that again?”
hyunjin
"Hyunjin, you're drooling on the pillow," you said, poking his shoulder.
Hyunjin blinked slowly, his eyelids, the anesthesia still clinging to his thoughts. He smacked his lips once, twice, then frowned, "M'not drooling," he mumbled, his words slurring together. "M'a gentleman. Gentlemen don't drool." He lifted a hand to wipe his mouth that, sure enough, had a little spit trail down to his chin.
Then the nurses approached either side of his hospital bed, One of them had a pair of scissors in her hand, which, in his state, seemed vaguely threatening until he realized they were just for cutting off the hospital bracelet. The other nurse held a neatly folded stack of clothes. His clothes.
"Alright, Mr. Hwang, let's get you changed," one of them chirped, her voice far too cheerful for someone about to strip him bare.
she reaching for the flimsy ties of his gown. Hyunjin's reflexes were delayed, but he managed to clutch the thin paper fabric to his chest just as she gave it a tug.
"Ladies, ladies, calm down!" he giggled, his words still thick. His eyes darted to you, wide and pleading, as if you alone could shield him from this indignity. "I have a girlfriend!" he announced.
The nurses only laughed, unfazed, and the one holding a fresh set of clothes— soft sweatpants and a hoodie —tried to reassure him. "We see naked people every day, sweetheart. Yours isn't special," she sighed, reaching for the gown again.
Hyunjin gasped dramatically, twisting away just enough to escape her hands, his cheeks flushing pink, "No, no, she'll get mad!" he insisted, jerking his chin toward you. His voice dropped to a whisper, though it was still loud enough for everyone to hear. "She’s scary when she’s jealous."
You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all — Hyunjin, bleary eyed and pouting, clinging to his dignity (and his paper gown). “I’m not gonna get mad,” you said, shaking your head as you stepped closer.
It was true— you'd seen him in far more compromising positions, and besides, the nurses were just doing their job. But Hyunjin's face crumpled, his lower lip jutting out in a pout so exaggerated it could've been comical if it weren't for the genuine hurt flashing in his eyes.
"You don't care," he accused, his voice wobbling. The nurses exchanged amused glances, one of them muffling a snort behind her hand.
Rolling your eyes, you plucked the stack of clothes from the second nurse’s arms. “I care enough to dress you myself, you big baby,” you said, shooing the nurses away with a mock-stern wave. They retreated, still giggling, as you perched on the edge of the bed. Hyunjin blinked up at you, his drowsy defiance softening into something fond.
“You’re gonna…?” he slurred, and you nodded, already untangling the sleeves of his sweater. “Yeah, unless you want them to strip you.” His gasp was scandalized. “No! You’re my girlfriend. That’s your job.”
The paper gown crinkled as you peeled it away, Hyunjin’s arms flopping obediently when you guided them into the sweater. He swayed a little, forehead bumping against your shoulder, and you could feel his warm breath through the fabric.
“You’re heavy,” you grumbled, half heartedly, as you wrestled the sweater over his head. He hummed, nonsensically pleased, and muttered into your neck. “S’cause I’m a gentleman,” he mumbled, and you snorted, tugging the hem down over his hips. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
jisung
"Baloney," Jisung mumbled, his tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth. "Absolute…..baloney."
His eyelids fluttered, still glued shut with the weight of whatever they’d pumped into his veins. Around him, machines beeped in lazy intervals.
"I had a dream," he announced to no one in particular, louder this time, though his voice cracked midway. His fingers twitched against the stiff hospital sheets. "I had a girlfriend. Like, a whole girlfriend. Not just a ‘we held hands once’ thing. A full romcom montage girlfriend." He sighed, dreamy and dramatic, as if the memory alone was enough to melt him back into the mattress. "She laughed at my jokes. Even the bad ones. The really bad ones."
A quiet chuckle came from beside him. it was warm, familiar. "Yeah?"
Jisung's eyebrows shot up, his face twisting into a mix of confusion and exaggerated offense. "Yeah?" he repeated, dragging the word out like it personally wronged him.
His head lolled toward the sound, still fighting to pry his eyes open. "Don't 'yeah' me like that. This was cinematic. We—" He hiccuped, the motion making his IV tube sway. "—we fed each other and....cuddled..The whole cliché shebang."
The chuckle came again, softer now, closer. A hand brushed his wrist, fingers skimming the edge of his hospital bracelet. "Sounds serious."
"Dead serious," Jisung insisted, nodding so vigorously his neck protested. He winced, "I think she might’ve been a ghost."
The hand on his wrist squeezed, just enough to pinch. "Ow—hey!"
"Definitely not a ghost," you said, your thumb rubbing slow circles over the inside of his wrist where you'd pinched him.
Jisung's fingers twitched again, curling weakly toward your touch. His eyelids finally unstuck, blinking rapidly, he squinted up at you, pupils blown wide, the brown of his irises nearly swallowed by black.
Jisung stared at you for three full seconds before his lips parted in a slow, lopsided grin. "Oh," he said, dragging the syllable out, "You're real." His head flopped back against the pillow, a delirious laugh bubbling up from his chest.
"That's wild. I thought you were, like. A metaphor. Or a side effect. Or—" He hiccuped again, one hand flailing vaguely toward the IV drip. "— drugs."
You caught his hand mid-air, lacing your fingers through his. His skin was warm, slightly clammy, but his grip tightened instinctively around yours. "Nope," you said, popping the 'p' right in his face. "Just me. Your very real girlfriend."
Jisung blinked at you, like he was trying to commit every detail of your face to memory before the drugs wiped it clean again.
His grin widened, dopey and unfiltered, “Holy shit,” he breathed, his free hand lifting to poke your cheek— once, twice —as if testing for holographic resistance. “You’re solid. Like, actually solid. not a...ghost”
You snorted, catching his wandering fingers before they could migrate to your nose. “Ghost girlfriends don’t usually pinch,” you pointed out, squeezing his hand again for emphasis.
“Fair,” he conceded, then leaned in, “But listen,” he whispered, “If you were a ghost, I’d still be into it.
You burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the walls. Jisung’s eyes lit up at the noise, his entire face softening at the noise. “You’re so gone”
Jisung’s happy expression turned into confusion. “Gone?” he repeated, tilting his head. “Nah. I’m here. Like, physically here.” He wiggled his toes under the thin hospital blanket for emphasis, then immediately winced. “Okay, maybe not all of me is here. My feet are kinda… zoning out.”
“They’ll come back,” you promised. “Just give the drugs time to wear off.”
felix
Felix blinked awake, eyes wide and unfocused, his face still slack. He looked around, then his head turned toward you, and his lips curled into a grin so sudden it was like someone had flipped a switch.
"There she is," he murmured, voice thick with sleep and whatever cocktail they'd pumped into his veins. "C'mere, c'mere." His hand flopped against the hospital bed sheets, patting the space beside him, " You're so... shiny right now. Like a... a disco ball, but softer. And smaller. And—" He squinted. "Are you glowing, or is that just me?"
You laughed, "I'm not glowing, lix" you stepped closer to him, sitting at the edge of the bed and planting a kiss on his forehead.
"I missed you," he announced solemnly, as if you'd been gone for years instead of the twenty minutes it took to wheel him out of surgery and back. "I missed you too, baby," you answered with a smile
Then, abruptly, he tensed. "Wait." His fingers tapped your arm, "Did you eat today?"
You laughed, "Yes, Felix. I ate."
His voice had lost its drowsy slur, "Are you sure you ate? fruits?.." He paused, holding a hand up to count on his fingers "like carrots, cucumbers, and also...yogurt"
"I had a sandwich," you said slowly, "and an apple. And yes, yogurt, if that’s what you’re worried about." You smoothed a hand down his arm, feeling the tension coiled there. "Felix, what’s—"
He exhaled sharply, his body sagging back against the pillows. "Good," he muttered, more to himself than to you. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with residual drowsiness. "That’s good." His grip loosened, fingers sliding down to lace clumsily with yours. "Gonna make you brownies when we get home," he mumbled, the words slurring at the edges.
"Brownies with walnuts," he clarified, because this was vital information. His voice was thick, half lost in the cottony haze of fading anesthesia. "And—and extra chocolate chips. The kind you like."
You smiled, squeezing his hand gently. "You're gonna burn them," you teased, "Like last time." The memory of smoke alarms and Felix waving a dish towel like a surrender flag made your chest ache with something fond and familiar.
Felix made a noise of protest, his head lolling toward you. "Not gonna burn them," he insisted, words smudging together at the edges. "Gonna use the timer. The one with the—" He gestured vaguely with his free hand, fingers sketching shapes in the air. "The beep. The loud beep."
seungmin
The first thing Seungmin noticed was the ceiling. It was off white, with large square lights glaring down at him. The second thing he noticed was the dryness — his throat felt like it had been stuffed with cotton balls, then set on fire. He tried to swallow and winced.
"Ugh," he croaked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The word came out rough, scraping against his raw throat.
He blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy as if someone had glued weights to them. The lights above him cast a harsh glow that made his head pound. He squinted, turning his face away.
"Someone turn that shit off," he mumbled, but no one answered. The room was quiet except for the steady beep of a monitor nearby. He tried to lift his arm to shield his eyes, but his limbs felt like wet noodles. A dull ache radiated from his shoulder down to his fingertips.
Then he heard laughter — soft, familiar. His brows furrowed, and he turned his head toward the sound. You were sitting in a chair beside the bed, grinning at him like he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.
Seungmin’s smile was slow, the kind that started at one corner of his mouth and crept upward until it reached his eyes, crinkling them at the edges. "You're here," he said, voice still scratchy but suddenly brighter, as if your presence had flipped a switch in him.
"My throat hurts," he murmured, pouting in a way that would've been ridiculous if it weren't so endearing. "My head hurts, too. And the lighting in here is ugly." His voice was thin, frayed at the edges, but the way he said it made you laugh again.
The sound seemed to startle him, his eyes widening slightly before his expression melted into something unbearably fond. "Oh," he said, as if surprised by his own realization. "You're laughing. That's nice." He blinked slowly, his gaze drifting over your face like he was memorizing it.
Then, he added abruptly, "Actually, I might be dying. Can you check?"
You rolled your eyes (fondly) and reached for the water bottle on the bedside table, twisting the cap off with one hand. "You're not dying," you said, sliding a straw inside and guiding it toward his lips. "You're just dramatic."
He opened his mouth obediently, letting you guide the straw between his teeth. The first sip was tentative, but the second was greedy, his throat working as he swallowed.
Seungmin exhaled sharply through his nose, water droplets clinging to his lower lip as he pulled away from the straw. His eyes — still hazy from anesthesia — locked onto yours with sudden, startling clarity. The corners of his mouth twitched, and then, his entire face softened.
"Actually," he murmured, his voice still rough but lighter now, "things are looking up. The lighting is better now." and then, because Seungmin had never been subtle a day in his life, he added, "Or maybe it's just you."
You snorted, but your fingers tightened around the water bottle anyway. "Wow," you deadpanned. "You're so smooth post surgery. Do they pump you full of charm with the anesthesia, or is this just your natural state?"
Seungmin's laugh was a quiet, breathy thing, more vibration than sound. "Natural talent," he croaked, then winced. "Ow. Laughing hurts. Stop being funny." He reached for the water again, but his hand wobbled mid air, his fingers twitching toward yours instead.
You guided the straw back to his lips without comment, watching as he took another slow sip. His throat worked, Adam's apple bobbing, and when he leaned back against the pillow, his expression was smug. "See? Told you. Better already."
You arched an eyebrow. "The water or me?"
"Yes."
jeongin
The nurse who worked at the hospital was old. she had seen it all before — confused Post-operation patients, disoriented trauma cases, people who swore they were Napoleon. But this was different.
She checked Jeongin's chart again, tapping her pen against the clipboard. "And what's your name, sweetheart?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Standard procedure. Always a standard procedure.
Jeongin blinked up at her, pupils still dilated from the anesthesia. His hair was a mess, sticking up in three different directions. He opened his mouth, hesitated — then his eyes slid past her shoulder, and his entire face transformed. A slow, dopey grin spread across his lips, so wide it looked like it might hurt. "You,"
You hadn't even said anything yet. You'd just walked into the recovery room holding a paper cup of water, freezing cold from the vending machine down the hall.
The nurse glanced between the two of you, eyebrows rising. "Do you know who this is?" she asked Jeongin, nodding toward you.
Jeongin didn’t even glance at the nurse. His gaze stayed locked on you, dopey and adoring.
“Of course I know,” he said, voice slurred but certain. “That’s—” He paused, brow furrowing, then brightened. “That’s my...girlfriend!”
The nurse’s pen hovered over her clipboard, her lips pursed in amusement. “Alright, Mr. yang,” she said, “What year is it?”
Jeongin blinked at her, his grin faltering for the first time since you’d walked in. His brow scrunched up, the effort of concentration visible in the way his fingers flexed against the sheets.
Then, with a sudden, helpless laugh, he turned his head toward you, his eyes pleading. “You tell her,” he said, then turned his head back to the nurse and whispered “She knows everything.”
You couldn’t help it — you snorted, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth to stifle the sound. and he beamed back at you.
the nurse chuckled, there was a fondness in it as she scribbled down in her clipboard. “Uh huh, and does ‘she’ know what planet we’re on, too?”
Jeongin’s face went blank for a second, then lit up again. “Earth,” he announced proudly, then, he added, “But I think she could tell you about the other ones. If you asked nice.”
The nurse’s pen paused mid scribble. She gave you a look — half exasperated, half amused — before sighing and flipping her clipboard shut. “Alright, Romeo. You’re officially the most charming post-op I’ve had all week.”
She patted Jeongin’s shoulder, then nodded toward the door. “He’s all yours. Just don’t let him try to walk yet” and she left with a final smile, the door clicking shut behind her.
Jeongin’s head turned to your direction, he tried weakly to reach for you, and you reached out and let him clumsily intertwine his fingers with yours.
“You’re real,” he murmured, he’d half convinced himself you were a hallucination.
You squeezed his hand, biting back a laugh. “Pretty sure. Unless we’re both hallucinating, which would be—”
Recipient: Female Kindergarten Teacher ✵ Bang Chan
a/n: all the fluff with the kicks and giggles ❤︎︎ apologies if i misrepresent chris and the kids, this is all a head canon of how i see our lovely leader in this situation. sorry for the late update & if this rushed? i had a vision for it but next story would have more details i promise
📖 Previous Message: Not So Quiet Reflection
Incoming message coming soon…
warning (s): drama kings// sassy kids// profanity// implied sexual activity// a lot of SUGGESTIVE comments// friends being friends—aka overgrown children// uhhh minors tread carefully// ALL fictional
